


Spires of Freedom 'Verse – Stumbling Towards Spires of Freedom, [NC-17] Sam/Dean, SPN AU

by meus_venator



Series: Stumbling Towards Spires of Freedom 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Dean whumpage, Incest, John rapes and abuses Dean, M/M, NC-17, Rape, SPN - Freeform, Sam rapes and abuses Dean, Slave!Dean, Slavery, Very Dark!fic, abused!Dean, dark!Sam, dark!fic, dark!john, dub-con, evil!Sam, hurt!Dean, non-con, parental incest, slave!fic, spn au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meus_venator/pseuds/meus_venator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three years, Dean has been brutalized by hunters who kept him as a slave. He escapes and begins a painful struggle to break free of both the mental and physical shackles. Can he ever again be the same man and what will the cost be to those who aid him as he becomes the hunted?</p><p><b>A/N:</b> Originally posted here: <a href="http://meus-venator.livejournal.com/3613.html"><b>Stumbling Towards Spires of Freedom Master Post on my LJ</b></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stumbling Towards Spires of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

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> Title: Stumbling Towards Spires of Freedom   
> Author: meus_venator  
> Art Post: meus_venator located on LJ http://meus-venator.livejournal.com/4076.html  
> Alpha: reapertownUSA (who gave tons of awesome writing help and advice too!)  
> Beta: reapertownUSA and kodamasama (LJ usernames)  
> Rating: NC-17   
> Pairing: Dean/OMCs  
> Word Count: 36,279  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own the people, places, or anything else you recognize. I just like to torment Dean for fun.  
> Fandom: Supernatural   
> Genre: AU  
> Summary: For three years, Dean has been brutalized by hunters who kept him as a slave. He escapes and begins a painful struggle to break free of both the mental and physical shackles. Can he ever again be the same man and what will the cost be to those who aid him as he becomes the hunted?
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> Master Post on LJ: http://meus-venator.livejournal.com/3613.html  
> Warning: This is a dark!fic and very graphic; it contains a character dealing with the aftermath of torture, sexual abuse, and slavery as well as ongoing abuse. M/M sex, non-con, rape and torture, and death of major character.   
> WARNING UNDER CUT FOR SENSITIVE VIEWERS (SPOILER CONTENT): see tags  
> Written for: samdean_otp the Sam & Dean 2011 Mini-Bang (LJ)  
> Author's Note: Thanks so much to reapertownusa who encouraged me to write, and cheerlead all the way to the finish line. Hugs and puppies to kodamasama who beta'd so superbly and spotted things my brain couldn't even notice anymore. You both rock.
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> [ Book Cover ]

 

: : :

Dean ran naked down the rain-slicked alleyway, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the rundown hotel, the ball gag still in his mouth. The only sound was the slap of his bare feet on the wet asphalt.

His heart beat was a slamming tattoo of fear, and he felt light headed, like his chest might burst open any moment. His nostrils flared as he tried to drag air in through the only available openings. He felt close to hyperventilating and tried to calm himself. He heaved himself up behind the shelter of a large dumpster and dared an apprehensive glance back to see if he was being followed yet.

_No time, no time._

He fumbled with bound hands, clumsy with adrenaline, to remove the gag. He cursed silently at the awkwardness of trying to open the buckles at the back. Finally undone, he yanked the hated device out of his drooling mouth and dragged in lung fulls of air. Glancing around quickly, he shoved the gag into the dumpster, making sure it was buried from view. He didn’t want to leave the hunters more of a trail than he could help.

Wheezing and shuddering now that he could bring in more air, he fell to his knees in the dirty alley and came to the shocking realization that he had actually escaped.

For now.

The opportunity had come so fast and so unexpectedly. He had never planned, never expected success, never thought past that point. It had seemed too improbable. In an uninterrupted existence of hurt, pain, and humiliation, he couldn’t have stretched his imagination to believe something good could actually happen to him. The Winchester luck just wasn’t that good. And when they find him…

The despair welled up in him so fast, choking his throat. A tiny escaped whimper was the only evidence of his shock. Still kneeling, he huddled down lower, smaller alongside the dumpster, curling in on himself, shuddering in fear at what he had done.

They will find him. The punishment… bad boy. The pain...

_No, stop._

Some small, unbeaten down part of his brain kicked in and told him that he couldn’t think like that. It was wrong what they did to him. The beatings, the cruel and twisted things they had made him do, how they had made him feel. He shuddered and tried to control the sick, slick feeling in his gut.

He’d rebelled in the past, tried to escape before. Not on this grand a level, but he’d stood up for things, fought back… But the consequences of rebellion had left him reeling, so badly hurt he couldn’t actually walk after, and he’d been kept chained and fucked anyway. Nothing but a convenient selection of holes for use, over and over again. And there was always the terrifying addition of drugs when they wanted to encourage him to be a good boy.

Dean knew that at some point they’d broken him. He had tried to tell himself to hold on and take it, survive until he could escape, but as the hopelessness of his situation had set in he had known he was just lying to himself. One day he had just stopped trying.

He despised himself for it, for what he was now, what he’d let them turn him into. He had given in. And since when did Dean fucking Winchester give in to anything, damn it? But there was still the sad fact that he had. It had still never been enough to stop the pain.

It was only a matter of time until they killed him.

He choked back a sob. When had he become such a girl? He’d used to have some spirit…hadn’t he?

 _Just freakin’ shut up,_ he told himself _. That’s not helping._

 _Calm, Dean, calm. Think it out_.

As his breathing started to even out, he tried to assess the situation. It had been so long since he had been outside, let alone free to operate on his own without a leash and guard. As the chill of the late September evening begun to penetrate, he realized that clothes must be a priority.

Fuck, he’d gotten sloppy, stupid…submissive. His mind blanked in confusion. He should have taken the few clothes they’d let him wear when they changed locations. They had been there in the closet, inside the blue duffel, Salvation Army wear - cheap cotton T and some hand-me-down jeans and flip flops. No shoes, he hadn’t worn real shoes for over … how long, a year? Two? Three? How long had it been? Some clothes would have been better than nothing.

_Dammit!_

But what if they had come back? How stupid would that have been to be recaptured before he had even escaped, while trying to protect his vanity no less? What vanity? He snorted to himself, almost gagging.

The next priority after clothes was the clip connecting his wrists together. He had to do something about that too. He bit his lip; his mind was a spinning hamster cage of indecision.

He risked another look back down the alleyway. It wouldn’t be long until they returned and the hunt for him began. He only had a small window and had to make it count. Had to.

Coast clear, Dean scanned around and decided to start with what was close at hand. He reopened the dumpster bin lid and looked inside. The smell was awful, rot and corruption and rancid grease. He pushed through some of the restaurant debris but couldn’t find anything resembling clothing.

He had been hoping for a discarded restaurant apron or shirt of some kind, any kind of cloth, but no luck. But he couldn’t be put off, not with the stakes so high and every second counting. So he breathed in and tried not to think too hard about it as he begun to empty one of the plastic garbage bags. It was difficult with his hands bound together and exhaustion setting in now that the adrenaline spike was running down. It wasn’t ideal or pretty, but as he wrapped the cold, putrid plastic around his waist, he knew it was the best he could do in the situation.

 

: : :

 

They had been at him for hours like wolves circling their prey, nipping and biting and hurting him. When they had started to whip him he couldn’t remember, just his begging, ‘pleasepleasepleaseplease, sir’, ‘nooo’, ‘sorry, sir’, ‘sorry, I’ll be good’ until they had gagged him.

The begging hadn’t helped; it never did. They had kept beating him with the flogger, alternating strokes on one side and then the other. At first it had been to humiliate and then, once the riding crop had come out, to simply bring unvarnished pain.

Blood had run down his bare buttocks and thighs, and he hadn’t been able to control his body’s trembling anymore. He had felt like he would shake apart at any moment. His steady stream of whimpers and begging moans had been the only thing to escape the ball gag until, finally, blessed darkness had crept in. He had lost consciousness at well past 100 strokes.

When he came to they were gone.

The call must have come in while he was out. He was alone, naked on his belly on the soiled and bloody hotel sheets. His wrists were pinned above him, the leather cuffs clipped together behind the wooden slats of the old headboard. They must have been in a hurry because normally both his arms and legs would have been chained or, worse yet, he would have been shoved in his cage.

He looked up, dazed, at the old motel headboard, one of the pair of double beds in the anonymous, cheaply decorated room, a twin to any number of rooms they’d stayed in before. Then it came to him, the slow realization that this wasn’t a metal frame bed; it was made of wood and he had been left unchained.

He stopped breathing and listened intently before he moved again, before he even risked thought again. He couldn’t sense anyone in the room. He was alone, and he didn’t think it was a trap. After all these years, they had finally slipped up.

He tried to raise himself up off his belly and almost passed out at the pain from his back and legs. His blacking out hadn’t stopped them, it seemed; they had continued with the whip up from his backside, leaving his back a living wall of flame. Breathing in, he tried again to rise. He finally managed to get up on his knees, head bowed, leaning against the headboard, panting over the gag as he waited for the pain to subside a bit.

The wood of the headboard was real. It was old, fluid smeared, and yellowed with age, and it was still strong, but it was _wood_. He wondered if he would be strong enough to break it.

He heard voices outside and froze. He could clearly make out male laughter from beyond the large drape-covered picture window. They were coming closer. They were back!

Terror froze him in place until the voices continued on past his door. It had been someone else. His furious heart rate slowed, and he was left with the taste of fear lingering ugly in his mouth.

At first he tried to bash the slat of the headboard with his bound hands but couldn’t get any leverage. He twisted around painfully, then managed to get one foot around up under him to kick on the headboard. He tried once and his foot slipped. The piercing pain from his back at the overextension had him seeing white. He tried again, some success, he actually connected that time. A third time and there was a satisfying splintering sound.

Sudden pounding on the wall left him frozen him in fear, someone from the next room yelling to keep it down in there. Indecision gripped him for a minute as he paused his actions, but he’d gone too far now. There was no way to cover his escape attempt; he had to see this through. Maybe one more good kick would break the slat.

 

: : :

 

He crept down the alleyway. He could hear music in the distance, maybe from some bar, and went toward it. As he neared the source of the noise, he started to see people moving around on the streets. He pushed himself deeper into the shadows, cursing as his white skin caught the moonlight. He crouched there for a seemingly endless time, cold seeping into his bones, not really sure what he was doing.

It had been so long since he had made any kind of decision. He couldn’t quite gather the strength to do more than breathe. Pure desperation goaded him forward.

He saw a drunk stagger off down another side street. With no conscious plan or thinking, he followed the man, just letting long rusted gut instinct guide him.

The drunk lurched along haphazardly, singing tunelessly to himself, a bottle of something clutched in his hand. As Dean crept along behind him, he saw the man pause, stagger against the wall, and slide haltingly to the ground as he mumbled something.

Dean crawled nearer to him. The drunk wore a heavy army coat, several layers of sweaters, and an old army issue duffel slung over his shoulder. Pretty much Hunter haute couture with a chaser of alcohol, Dean mused grimly.

The drunk seemed to finally finish his slide down the brick, snorting sleepily. He came to a complete stop, slumped motionless and silent at the bottom of the wall. Out cold.

Dean reached tentatively for the duffel; he needed to get it off the man’s shoulder. His back and legs screamed from overextension as Dean stretched out and slipped the bag over the drunk’s shoulder and away from him. 

Suddenly the drunk lurched forward, boney, gnarled fingers grabbing at Dean’s bound wrists, beginning to dig into the tender skin.

“What the hell?!” the drunk bellowed, suddenly alert. He lurched forward alarmingly close to Dean’s face.

Shock and fear propelled Dean backward. He landed on his ass on the wet alleyway. The sudden movement broke the drunk’s hold, and Dean scrambled further back in shock. His back was ablaze in agony at the rushed movements.

“Fucking steal from me ya little bastard. Fucking bastard,” the drunk snarled.

Fighting the nearly overpowering instinct to cower in the face of the drunk’s rage, Dean somehow retained the presence of mind to stay on mission. He grabbed hold of the suddenly free duffel and ran with his prize clasped to his bare chest. Maybe every hunter instincts hadn’t quite been beaten out of him just yet.

His plastic bag modesty panel was left fluttering to the ground behind him on the alley floor. His bare, stripped cheeks shone in the moonlight as he raced away with the drunk raging incoherently behind him.

  
He retreated back to his original location, the drunk’s cries faded into the night. He hadn’t even bothered to pursue Dean.

Exhausted and breathless for the second time that evening, Dean slammed himself up against the shelter of a brick wall. His back screamed in protest against the cold and grit on his raw, aching skin, but his mind hungered for the comforting security of the solid wall behind him, and a tiny, unacknowledged part of him even savored the pain. He didn’t know what that said about him.

After a few short breaths though, the cold started to seep through him, and he was forced to give up the wall’s tactile embrace. As he ran his fingers through his too long hair worryingly, he frowned slightly at its still unfamiliar length and scuttled further back into the shadowed indent of a nearby service doorway. He took another quick look around; his eyes scanned for movement. When he detected none, he hauled his stolen booty forward to see what the drunk’s duffel might hold.

He almost cried when he saw the clothing inside. Maybe the Winchester luck was turning? There was an old pair of army fatigues smelling of sweat, dirt, and worse; a light weight army jacket; a flannel shirt; and a grubby white T shirt.

Dean grabbed the pants out of the bag and held them up to his waist, and visually measured. Breathless, Dean gingerly raised the pants over his scoured flesh. The cuts and abrasions on his ass all sounded off as the material scraped over them. The drunk was bigger than him, and Dean was silently thankful for the loose fit. In spite of the pain, the cloth covering his skin for the first time in ages felt like success.

Even the little bit of extra warmth helped, but with his hands bound, he couldn’t put on the shirt or jacket. There was also still the problem of no shoes or underwear, but Dean acknowledged that that would be a bit much to expect.

Dean hardly remembered underwear anyway. There had never been a time since he awoke with them that his ass had not needed to be available and open for a toy, a cock, a plug, or a hand.

He slung the duffel across his chest. The rub of the strap against his tender skin brought a whimper to his lips. It was awkward and would look strange if anyone looked closely, but it was the best he could do with the leather wrist straps still linking his wrists together. He draped the army surplus jacket over his arms to cover the fact that they were bound. He couldn’t do more until he somehow got help.

The black leather collar strapped round his neck, mercifully without a leash, couldn’t be helped either. At least the restraints on each ankle couldn’t be seen now beneath the too big pants.

Standing, he realized that he must looks like some kind of goth just escaped from a strip club with his bare chest, black collar on his neck, and cuffs on his wrists. He guessed that was better than a runaway sex slave.

  
_Just freakin’ awesome._

Out of nowhere he remembered that he used to be funny. This would be a good time for a smart ass remark, but somehow anything funny just seemed to dry up on his tongue.

 

: : :

 

He remembered the last time he was in a bar. Not a goth bar, just the regular, run down, hard on your luck roadhouse he and his brother had favored. Or more accurately, he and his brother could afford.

They had been taking a break that night from their latest job, and Dean had been on a great run of luck. It had been payday at the local mine, and the beer was flowing. It hadn’t been hard to amble over to the pool table at just the right time, when the good will was well lubricated and the egos were unchecked, and find himself in a game.

“Two cold ones please, darlin’,” he asked the waitress when they first walked in and took seats at the bar. The waitress was back in no time with two chilled bottles, condensation already gathering on their sides. “Cheers, Sammy, to a job well done.”

Sam clinked his bottle together with Dean’s, a sour look on his face.

Sam had been sulking a lot the last two or three days. Dean wasn’t sure what was going on exactly; he had been sick and couldn’t go on their last hunt, but it seemed ever since Dad and Sam got back, Dean could do nothing right in either of their eyes. Their Dad had taken off earlier that evening to meet up with some old hunting buddies, which left Sam and Dean free to find their own entertainment. Sam hadn’t wanted to go anywhere, but Dean begged and cajoled till he got his gigantor brother to unbend enough to get into the car with him. The silence of the car ride was a pleasant relief after so much snipping, and Dean hoped the evening spent together would help mend whatever fences he’d inadvertently broken.

Sam in particular seemed to be taking issue with everything since the hunt for the witch had wrapped up. How Dean ran things, why he always drove the Impala, why he went in first on a job, and that Dean and Dad didn’t trust him, how little money they had, and then the inevitable one, why had Sam even come back from Stanford to begin with if things were going to be like this. That he wasn’t Dean’s bitch, he could be in charge of things too.

The constant friction and animosity was all wearing on Dean a little, still recovering from his illness. It hadn’t helped the stress level either that all the clues so far on their new job hinted strongly that the thing they were hunting was a shapeshifter.

Dean had no problems taking those bastards out after one had framed him with the FBI and left his and Sam’s lives in shambles. There was also something so straightforward about a hunt, no arguments, no backbiting, just something bad to hunt down and kill. Leave it to Sammy to even make that complicated. And dad was no better, taking issue with how Dean cleaned his guns for cripes sake; he’d been cleaning his own weapons since he’d first learned to shoot. Everyone just seemed to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.

Dean gazed around the bar to see what prospects there were. He looked over, and Sam was already steadfastly ignoring him, half heartedly pecking away at the keyboard he insisted he’d bring along. But Dean knew that while part of Sam’s big, giant brain was working on his research, the other was carefully tracking his brother’s movements. Dean shook his head. That boy had no sense of fun, he thought as he strolled over to join a game of pool just starting.

Now, four games later and five hundred dollars to the good, Dean thought it was a great time to both relieve his bladder and make a graceful exit before things got ugly.

He winked at the waitress as he dropped off his empty beer bottle and headed toward the bathrooms. He had only had three beers to the miners’ seven or eight and was still completely in control of his faculties. Though a bit mellower for it, Dean was far from compromised; it never paid to let down your guard too much during a game.

As he rounded the corner to the back hall of the bar on the way to the ‘little miner’s room’, the last thing he remembered was the feel of refreshingly cool night air coming in from the propped open side-door. He could recall thinking what a nice change it was from the stuffy, smoke filled haze in the rest of the bar. Then something hit him over the back of the head, and that’s the last he remembered.

 

: : :

 

He shook his head to clear the unproductive slide into memory. He’d been escaping into memory for years now, but he had to stay focused. He’d gotten a chance here, and he couldn’t blow it by zoning out.

It was fully dark now, and Goth look or no, with the addition of the pants and jacket he should be able to pass for something approaching normal.

As long as they don’t look too close then they might not notice the blood on his back, the bruises on his neck and ribs, and the haunted look in his scared green eyes.

He started to move, limping slightly as he went toward the sounds of music, hopefully a bar. Something had gouged his bare foot on the mad dash away from the drunk, but he hardly felt the pain. It was just one more thing to feel.

A bar, he thought… His mind began to grind into motion; the long suppressed hunter in him crawled up to the surface, along with the start of a plan. There might be trucks there, 18 wheelers, and if he could somehow get out of town, maybe he could have a fighting chance of a real escape.

As he approached the bar’s parking lot, he felt a growing sense of agitation, and he realized that he has no idea how to talk to people anymore. He had done nothing but plead and beg and answer ‘yes, sir’ or ‘yes, master’ for years now. Even before things escalated these last few months, he had always been kept separate, kept quiet, alone, blindfolded or hooded, gagged with his head down. His voice had not been required, except to scream for them.

Dean stood frozen in thought just on the outskirts of what did indeed seem to be a bar. He didn’t know what day it was, but the bar seemed pretty busy to him. But that could just be him. More than three people seemed like a crowd to him these days. He smirked at the irony.

Maybe it was Friday or Saturday; that would explain the business. Normal people go out on those days, have fun. Normal people keep track of the days of the week.

For him, the days of the week had lost their meaning in favor of other designations. There were hunting days where he stayed bound to the bed or shower, tied in a closet or locked in his cage. Or moving days where he was forced to kneel behind the driver’s seat on the floor, covered by an old blanket, bound, gagged, and silent. Sometimes, when they pulled over, he was used in the back seat to suck and stroke as required, working furtively from his awkward place kneeling on the floorboards. And then there were the play days. Dean began to tremble at just the thought of those.

Shaking his head to banish the memory, he forced himself to move ahead towards the light and humanity. His head hung lower and lower until he had a hard time forcing himself to look up to see where he should go. He started to tremble. Growing anxiety filled him with each step as the brutal conditioning of the last few years asserted itself.

He had been thinking of talking to someone without permission. His master didn’t normally allow him to speak, and now he was going to ask for help from some complete stranger. Fear choked him, and all he wanted to do was sink to his knees and huddle there, begging forgiveness until they came.

“Kinda cold for that getup, eh, bud?”

The voice of the leather clad man startled Dean. He froze. The biker with his girlfriend had appeared suddenly out of the shadows. Dean didn’t know what to say. He looked at them quickly, then slammed his eyes down at the ground again, frozen, a deer in the headlights, his mind caught in fear and indecision. Unaware of Dean’s inner struggle, the man and his girlfriend keep strolling onward through the darkness towards the noise and lights.

Breathing hard like he’d run a marathon, Dean finally looked up. Shit, shit, shit. How could this work when he couldn’t even work up the nerve to speak? His breath hitched in his chest, and he ached at the realization of how far he had fallen. He took a breath, gave himself yet another mental shake, and forced himself on toward the parking lot. His goal was in sight.

To his good luck, the bar, and it was a bar, was not only that. It was also a roadside diner and truck stop. There were trucks there, dozens of them, in the dim glow of the overhead parking lot lights. He just needed to get himself on one, but his tongue was still frozen, and he couldn’t make himself do more than look up in furtive glances. How was he going to approach someone for help like this?

_Come on, man, you never used to be such a wuss._

Suddenly a hand clamped down on his shoulder blade, hard and punishing. Dean ground his teeth, held back a sob of pain from his screaming back and the larger absolute terror in his mind as he was swung around. His breath stopped; he almost gagged in fear.

They’d found him already.

Could anyone get the drop on him these days? Had he lost all his skills?

The bodies surrounded him as he was roughly turned, and he saw several pairs of jean-clad legs from his downcast eyes. He struggled to lift his head, to be a normal man, to fight back. He couldn’t let them take him back so easily.

But the words still rang in his ears - ‘master’, ‘good boy’, ‘kneel’, ‘eyes down, slave’. As they rushed through his mind, all he wanted to do was drop to his knees and hide.

Distantly, he realized that the legs before him were wearing sneakers, not hunters’ hiking boots. The rips were artfully done by designers, not earned by the wear and tear of a working hunter.

He could only numbly register that it was not _them_. It was someone else.

“What the fuck, buddy? What kind of fucking freak are you?”

Dean’s muscles locked and, unsurprisingly, he couldn’t find the words to answer, couldn’t look up at them, could barely breath.

The surge of relief left him light headed, but still trembling. It didn’t matter that it was just a group of young men in their twenties, not much younger than himself. Any other similarity stopped there. They were free, and Dean was still standing, not in position as he should be. The group was drunk and glared menacingly at him from under their John Deer caps, making Dean’s skin crawl. Dean’s desire to drop to his knees and grovel intensified.

“Hey! Hey, what kinda fucking weirdo are you, man? Didn’t you hear me? Can’t you talk, you fucking moron?”

The one that spoke shoved him hard on the shoulder. He grimaced in pain as he stumbled back into another person who pushed him violently in the other direction. His back screamed in agony at the rough shove. But the pain braced him slightly, reminding him of his mission, not his training, and he locked his knees. He tried to shove away his self doubt.

In the scuffle, Dean lost his grasp on the army jacket and his bound hands were revealed. Shamed, Dean risked a fleeting look around at the group, his voice still locked away.

 _Stop being such a freak,_ he told himself, _say something, genius._

“Hey, you fucker, we ain’t into that kinky stuff in our town.”

Another in the group shoved him again; he stumbled to the ground, ending up on his knees.

 _Well, here’s something I’m familiar with,_ he thought.

“You can’t bring your sick shit here,” one said as they dragged him back up to his feet.

The moment he was up, one of them took a full on swing at him. It smashed him in the face, flinging his head back to plow against the car parked behind him. More blows landed, his head like a bobble doll, spinning around beneath one angry blow after another. Quickly, more of them got in on the action, swinging him around from one to the other like a horrible parody of a square dance, each taking their chance at a swing at him.

As the next series of blows landed on his chest and face, Dean lost his balance and crumpled again to the ground.

 _Visiting you a lot tonight_ , he thought, as his blurry gaze took in the puddle covered blacktop.

Then they started to kick.

 _Just like home_.

As he began to pass out, he thought maybe he was still funny…

 

: : :

 

Ted Berry was tired.

He was tired of driving, tired of his nagging ex-wife with her alimony demands, but mostly he just wanted to dump his load and crawl into the back of his truck for some shuteye.

He was well past his legal number of hours driving, but how the hell could you get from Denver to California in three days without pulling too long a shift? He sighed as he stepped down from his truck and pulled on his work gloves. He was too old for this shit.

Ted checked his tires and double checked his rigging and chains before he went toward the truck stop. _Safety first_ , he thought to himself as he headed across the busy parking lot.

That’s when he saw the circle of young men and the nearly naked boy sliding to the ground under a field of fists and boots. He heard the dull thuds of fists connecting with flesh along with the sicker soft scuff of sneakers on skin.

“Hey there, stop that.” No response came from the men turned jackals. “Stop, you little fuckers; I’ve got a gun!” He bellowed out his bluff across the parking lot.

He did have a gun in the side of his seat; it was his insurance policy that he kept safely out of view of roadside inspections. But it was there, not here. He would need to run back to the truck to get it, and it all might be over by then with the young fellow dead at the rate they were going to town on him. He hoped they didn’t decide to call his bluff.

Normally, Ted wouldn’t want to get involved in another man’s trouble. More than half the time they deserved the ass whooping they got, but there was something in the defeated droop of the boy’s shoulders as they swung him around. His downcast eyes and total lack of any attempt to defend himself struck a very wrong note in Ted.

The leader of the gang of drunks looked up blearily at him. “What the fuck you want, old man?”

“It’s what you fellers want that should matter. Do you want me to shoot your idjits’ asses?” In the dark, the wrench Ted had carried to tighten up the chains on the rigging could look like a gun. “Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops. Whatcha’ doing swarming that fella anyway? Get lost before you make me angry.” 

The group turned and looked down at the boy on the ground who had been trying to crawl back up onto his knees, and whether out of boredom or fear, the pack seemed to come to a collective decision.

One of them spit heavily at the beaten boy, striking his face. “Don’t want to see you in our town after today, faggot, This is your first and only warning.”

They moved off toward the bar, slapping each other on the back and chuckling together at the lesson they clearly thought they’d taught the man.

 

Ted put his wrench back in the back loop of his jeans and stuffed his gloves in his side pocket as he rushed over to the fallen boy. As he came closer he was off-handedly struck by the beauty of the boy… _man_ , he corrected himself. This was a full grown man, some 27-28 years old.

He hunched down beside the young man. “You okay, son? Those assholes do any permanent damage?”

He caught a dazed, scared look in the boy’s eyes as they darted quickly up toward him. Then the boy shuddered and looked down again. Ted didn’t know what to make of his silent bowed head.

“You hurt, son? Should I call the police?”

At mention of the police, the boy’s head flung back up, and he looked fearfully into Ted’s eyes. There was a panicked, wild look in that hollow, green gaze.

The boy shook his head emphatically – _No_.

“Well, what the fuck, boy? I got to do something about you. I can’t just leave you here.”

It was then that Ted noticed something was wrong with the boy’s hands. What he had taken as all part of some kind of strange outfit with the collar and bare chest wasn’t just a fashion statement. The boy’s hands were actually bound together. As Ted looked closer at the boys hands he could see him cringing away slightly in embarrassment.

“Here, boy, want me ta see if I can get you outta those things?”

He slowly approached a bit closer and waited; something warned him he needed to move gentle and slow with this startled deer of a boy. He could almost see the pulse in the boy’s throat hammering a too rapid beat, and Ted tried to project a soothing presence to the panicked lad. Finally, the boy nodded his head yes.

Ted crouched down to the still kneeling man. “Lemme see here. What happened to you anyway, son, Strip-o-gram gone wrong or what?”

He tried to keep it light, but the more he looked at the boy, the worse the feeling in his gut got. The pale skin was dirty and scraped, but beneath it Ted saw a multitude of old bruising and far too much blood, old and new. And with the boy’s head bowed, he could see the hunched shoulders were striped and bloody…

Deciding he could only tackle one problem at a time, Ted took a closer look at the restraints. He saw that the boy's cuffs were held together with a pressure link with a latch. It would be nearly impossible for the wearer to open them, but unsnapping them was child's play for anyone with two unrestrained hands.

As soon as he’d been released, the boy let his arms fall boneless to his sides. He looked to be in shock. And Ted realized he was now shivering. A situation Ted saw was not helped by the fact that the begrimed, slightly freckled feet that poked out from beneath too big army fatigues were bare.

“Listen here, boy, you got any clothes? It’s freezing here.” Ted scanned around the parking lot and spotted the boy’s bag. “Whatcha got here? A feller’s gotta have some clothing on. It’s damn near winter…”

Grabbing it up, Ted pulled out the scruffy T-shirt and flannel.

“Here ya go, boy. Something to cover ya with.”

 

He started to help the boy, but as the kid stood, he jerked nervously away from Ted. Cowering back just a bit, he gingerly put on the T-shirt, like any movement hurt.

With the boy now standing, Ted was surprised at just how tall he was. Having only previously seen him cringing and curled in on himself on the ground, fully upright he at least matched Ted’s six foot. But height was all he had; as the boy dressed, Ted’s sharp eyes didn’t miss how painfully thin he was, well past the point of healthy.

Ted’s eyes bulged a bit at the glint of nipple rings on the boy, but heck, it took all kinds, and right now Ted was more concerned with the hundred and one bruises and scars decorating the boy than with any particular kinks.

Next, Ted passed him the flannel shirt. Again, the movements as he slowly drew the shirt on were slow and screamed of pain.

The boy’s mouth twisted as if to speak, but not a sound escaped. Ted wanted to scratch his head. He didn’t need or want any trouble, and this kid had trouble stamped all over him.

Sighing, he said, “So, boy, what’ll it be? I can’t just leave ya here. Do I call the cops? The medics? Your family? Do you have somewhere to go or someone else I could call? I need to make a decision here.”

“Please…” The one scraped whisper broke the boys silence. Begging seemed hauntingly familiar to him, Ted thought, dismayed.

“Please, no cops. I’ll do anything…”

In an instant the boy had dropped to his knees. Ted stepped back in shock to avoid the kid’s outreached hands as they grappled for the zipper to his fly.

“Whoa’ there, son. Jesus, slow down. I ain’t… I don’t... That ain’t gonna happen. I could be your father.”

Rebuffed, he watched as the boy seemed to crumple in on himself, falling back on his heels head bowed. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, and he could feel the caged desperation leaking off the youth, but he made no further protests or offers. Even his hitched breath seemed to compress sound, like he had been punished in the past for speaking out of turn.

“What about your family?” Ted asked.

The boy again only shook his head.

“Well, I can’t just leave ya here like this.”

He was feeling at a loss until the boy managed to choke out a shuddered whisper, “J-just n-need to leave town.”

“What, are you in some kind of trouble? The feller who tied you up?” Ted asked, mercifully misunderstanding.

The boy nodded before again looking down.

“Oh, crap.”

Ted beat his tired ball cap against his leg. He didn’t want to get involved, but something told him the boy wouldn’t be safe, or possibly even alive, if he didn’t do something. As he gazed down at the battered, hunched shoulders, a fierce surge of protectiveness came over him.

“I hope I ain’t gonna regret this, but probably I will…” He scratched his head again absently as he continued to look down at the boy. “I suppose I could take ya with me along the way for a bit, just till you’re out of range of this feller... You ain’t no criminal are ya?”

The boy shook his head.

“I’m on route to California, but I ain’t signing up for you for the whole way, ya understand, just till you’re safe.”

He could hear the boy’s breath hitch with emotion as he nodded his head vigorously in agreement; it seemed anywhere away from here was fine with him. A hand surreptitiously crept up to wipe tears away. Ted pretended not to see the not so covert move. Ted sighed; he couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this town off his boots.

“Well, first I gotta grab me something ta eat. You wanna come with?”

The boy was instantly on alert again, shaking his head no, no, no. He backed away from Ted as if he might force him to come.

  
Trying for calm, Ted made a placating gesture with his hands and gently said, “Okay, okay then, no problem.”

As the boy stopped retreating, he tried another tack. “So maybe you should just wait outside my truck. I’d let ya in, but I really can’t.” Walking slowly, Ted led the limping boy over to his truck. “You just wait here. I won’t be long.”

The boy nodded absently at that, a somewhat deflated slip to his shoulders, but said nothing. He seemed resigned to waiting, expected it even. Troubled but unsure what else to do, Ted headed toward the diner. As Ted walked down the long gap between the parked semis, he took a last look back and saw how the slight figure had crouched down, practically huddled under the front wheel of the semi to await Ted’s return. Ted was torn by the forlorn broken tableau the boy presented, and his heart wrenched a little more. Without any conscious thought, he turned on his heel immediately and headed back.

“Oh, what the fuck, stay in my cab. Just don’t fuckin’ touch anything or I’ll have ta kill ya.”

The boy’s eyes opened wide with shock. Ted just chuckled.

“I’m just kidding, kid. Climb in. If you want to lay down, my rack’s in the back. Otherwise, take the passenger seat, and like I said, don’t touch a thing. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve grabbed a bite.”

 

: : :

 

Dean climbed up into the passenger seat of the big rig and looked around. The homey interior smelled of tobacco and sweat and leather and felt like safety to Dean. A palace. Ted had swung the door shut and tapped the side panel in temporary farewell. Dean was alone.

Safe. Away. Dean focused on the words. Dean had vague memories of somewhere warm and bright with sun and sand. Building sand castles with Sam, Sammy, looking after him in the bright sun, glowing with happiness, so carefree. Caring for the energetic little boy as they discovered what shapes they could make with the things they found discarded at the beach…. Sam… Dean‘s breath hitched. Oh god, Sammy.

He nodded his head vigorously as his hand dashed up to wipe more tears away. California or anywhere other than here would be fine by him. The man, he didn’t even know his name, he was going to take care of him, for a while at least. For long enough. Long enough for Dean to maybe rest, sleep a bit. That would be enough to stay ahead of them. Stay free.

Dean felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable in the face of the man’s kindness. How long had it been since someone had been kind to him? 

As exhaustion slipped over him, Dean tried to nestle into the leather chair and get comfortable. He didn’t know how long he’d have to wait for the man, but waiting was something he knew.

 

: : :

 

When Ted returned and opened the door, he found the cab empty.

Surprised, he glanced around but didn’t see the boy outside anywhere so he swung himself up fully into his seat and glanced back to survey the sleeping cubby. The bed was untouched. It seemed like the boy had caught another ride. Then he noticed a slight movement at the passenger side floor.

The boy had managed to wedge all six foot something of himself down into the cramped floor area. He was curled tightly in upon himself, and clutched his battered duffel as a pillow.

Ted sighed and wished the boy had used the bed. Would’ve been a lot more comfortable than where he was now. But he decided that he needed rest more than he needed a better location, so he started the big rig up and got on the road. Despite the motion and rumble, the boy didn’t stir.

Ted set the sandwiches and drink he’d bought for the lad on the console tray and reached back into his sleeping bunk; he twitched a blanket out from the rack and draped it gently over the sleeping figure.

Dear lord, what had he gotten himself into with this one?

 

: : :


	2. Stumbling Towards Spires of Freedom

  


  


: : :

“On the bed, now.”

Dean crawled quickly to the bed, climbed up, and waited on all fours for the next order. His head hung down submissively.

“Over here and suck me, now.”

Dean turned his body toward his master and reached for the fly of his jeans. He worked quickly to release his master’s cock from his pants and boxers. His master was already half hard and it had only been a half hour since he last used Dean, but the man seemed inexhaustible when it came to raping him.

“Hurry the fuck up, you whore. This isn’t an all day exercise.”

Dean’s hand reached shakily forward at the threat and began to palm his master’s cock and bring it tentatively towards his mouth. His master, impatient with his efforts, simply grabbed his head and took over, forcing a startled cry from Dean as he pushed himself into his mouth.

Dean struggled to lick and lap at the member invading his mouth, as his master started to shove in and out in quick brutal strokes. Dean rushed to cover his teeth and tried to lick the head on the inward stroke, and do his best to not choke.

“Oh yea, that’s it.” His master’s cock began to fill, slowly growing inside Dean’s mouth as the rhythmic glide did its work.

”Oh yea, fucking whore, that mouth of yours is like satin, shoulda’ taken you years ago.”

The thrusts picked up speed and harshness till Dean was just a passenger on the fuck train, trying to breath between choking strokes. His master’s cock continued to fill and lengthen until it filled his throat, and pushed past Dean’s gag reflex. Dean was soon deep-throating his master. His owner’s large hands held the back of his head in a punishing grip as he set the pace. Dean barely inhaled enough air on the upswing to stay conscious.

“Oh yea, this is why we keep your lazy whore ass around.” His master slammed into his face and held. And held.

Dean’s hands scrabbled to gain purchase on his master’s jeans, not fighting the punishing choke hold - just trying to hang on. He’d fought in the past, fought the restraining hold and the brutal mouth fucks, but it was just not worth the punishment. Besides, if his master made a mistake and left his cock down Dean’s throat too long, well, that’s one way for sure that he could escape them. So far, even as bad as it had been, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to end it himself.

Just as Dean began to white out and lose his grip on Hands’ jeans, his master began to move again.

“Oh fuck yea,” he said as he pulled back, partially out, enough for Dean to gasp in some breaths.

Then his master began anew, slamming and beating into Dean’s abused throat. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of carefully grabbed breaths, Dean felt his master begin to coil up for release. It was his last act to jam himself deeply down Dean’s throat. Dean couldn’t even taste the pulsing load of come that jetted directly into him.

As the man panted above him, Dean collected himself enough to remember his duty. He began to swirl his tongue around his master’s softening member to suck and clean it. Even when he was done he didn’t pull back, just continued to lick gently and waited till his master decided he was through with his mouth.

“Hey,” his master yelled out of the bedroom into the room next door. “You want a piece of him before I pack him up?”

As Hands let Dean continue to nuzzle his softened cock in his mouth, Dean could feel his trembling begin. Hands rubbed his shoulders absently, and Dean could feel him waiting for an answer, and Dean’s shaking increased. Fists stalked into the room, somewhat distracted, and came over to where Dean knelt on the bed.

He lifted Dean’s face up to look into it as he continued to suckle Hands’ cock.

“You being a good boy, Dean?” he asked harshly.

Dean’s shiver threatened to become a full on shake as he silently nodded his head, eyes staring up at Fists, Hands’ cock still in his mouth.

Fists reached behind Dean, pulled sharply on his balls, and said to Hands, “Nah, I had my fill for now at supper; you youngsters just have more staying power than this old man. I might be tempted later, but pack him up for now.” Fist slapped Dean harshly on the ass and strolled back out of the room.

Dean leaped a little into his master’s groin at the strength of the blow.

If Hands felt the slight lessening of tension in Dean’s body at Fists’ exit, he said nothing, just looked at Dean thoughtfully for a moment.

“Head down, hands behind your back,” his master ordered after he pulled his cock loose with a wet plop from Dean’s mouth. He tucked himself away and then went over to the end table for something.

 

Soon, Dean’s hands were snapped into cuffs. As he darted a questioning look up, a ball gag was stuffed quickly into his bruised mouth.

“Now get your ass over to your cage.”

Dean shivered at that order and stole a quick glance at what, at first glance, might have looked like a large dog cage in the corner. In reality though, as Dean was very well aware, it was custom made for a man and strong enough to keep even the most determined in. It was just under three feet tall, so sitting up straight wasn’t an option, and barely four feet deep so Dean was always curled onto himself, held practically in place once he entered. When the hunters left for any amount of time, that’s where Dean ended up. The cage.

He moved quickly to stand by the cage door, head down; when Hands growled, “Kneel,” he hurriedly fell to his knees. He looked up as his master approached, begged with his eyes and pleaded silently.

A harsh slap made his head nearly bounce off the nearby wall.

“None of that, now get in there,” his master ordered. “Oh, wait.” He grabbed onto Dean’s shoulder and stopped him momentarily from entering and then strode off to the bathroom.

Dean waited, unmoving, obedient, panting slightly in panic at what was to come.

Hands returned shortly with some plastic tubing and sterile wrap from the washroom. His master crouched before him with a gesture for Dean to rise up on his knees. This was not a good sign.

Dean began to tremble as his master took his dick in hand, sterilized the end of his penis, and started to push the catheter in. Dean knew he might be in the cage for a long time when Hands broke out the catheter. He winced as the tube was shoved too quick into him and closed his eyes and tried not to whimper in pain and humiliation. Hands hooked the tube up to a large, empty Pepsi bottle just outside Dean’s cage, and as soon as it was in, golden fluid started to trickle out.

“Good Boy.” Hands slapped Dean’s ass and gestured for him to climb in. “Now, in you go.”

With his hands bound behind his back and no good way of balancing, Dean’s entrance backing into the cage was slow. Impatient, Hands physically grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted, and shoved him the rest of the way inside the cage. Dean struggled to keep his head down and not panic as the narrow cage closed in on him.

Next was the part Dean liked the least as a black lined blanket was draped over the sides of the cage. It was supposedly to keep out the prying eyes of maids and maintenance staff of the hotel, but with the window drapes closed and the door locked, this seemed to Dean to be punishment just for punishment’s sake. He tried to tamp down the growing dread and anxiety at his own vulnerability. He didn’t know how long this would be for, an hour, a day, two days. As time had gone on, he’d been left for longer and longer periods in the enforced dark, and he could feel the walls of the cage already start to close in on him.

_Great, another phobia to add to my growing list._

He felt tears as they began to roll unbidden down his cheeks, and he bit his lip and looked away from his master to hide his pain. But a large hand reached into the cage and yanked his chin forward, holding him still for his master’s viewing.

Hands just held his face for a minute or two, just drinking in Dean’s desperation; he wouldn’t let him look away or move.

“Ah, Dean, so beautiful in your pain. And I know how much you love the dark; we’ll just have to remember to keep you there more often.” And with that, his master withdrew his hand, closed and locked the cage door. With a final smirk directed at Dean, he dropped the last flap of the material over the front of the cage that left Dean in total darkness.

 

: : :

 

Dean struggled against the confinement and the dark; thirst battled with sanity. It had been days since his master had left him in the cage. Normally four or five hours, a day at most, but this had easily gone on far longer than that, and without food or water.

In the darkness, he couldn’t tell how much time had gone by, but the little food he’d been given had already cycled through, and the cage was fouled, much to Dean’s total disgust. He could only wonder if the catheter bottle was probably full too. It had been at least two days. Food was one thing, but a man could only go so long without water.

His muscles screamed in agony against the cramped, forced confinement, his jaw ached from the ball gag, and his wrists were scarily numb at his back. Dean worried he might actually lose them through lack of circulation. He tried to squirm around in his tiny prison to some less uncomfortable position with little success. Nothing relieved the ache in his knees.

Maybe they might never come back.

 

: : :

 

Dean felt a hand shake his shoulder, but not so huge, not so powerful. It was somehow different. As he groggily surfaced out of his nightmare, he panicked as he felt himself held and confined, and he tried to struggle.

“Come on, kid, wake up; it’s only a dream.”

Dean blearily oriented himself as he realized he was no longer in the cage, no longer with them.

All the events of the last few hours rushed back to Dean as he looked up at the old man who had helped him, god, saved him earlier.

He had a kind face, Dean thought, now that he could see him in the light of day. The kind of face you would have thought would help a stranger. The man was bewhiskered and balding with glasses that sat haphazardly on the end of his nose, partially obscuring the bright blue eyes that missed very little. He wore an old, plaid flannel over a white T-shirt and heavy cotton work pants. Nothing fancy, but it was all clean, if a bit soft and frayed from long use. A simple man, Dean thought, but a kind one.

Dean struggled slowly out of his blanket and duffel bag nest on the cramped cabin floor. Careful of his back, he hitched himself up onto the passenger seat and wondered where they were.

“Hey, kid, ya okay?” Dean watched as the man picked up several sandwiches and pop he must have purchased before his return and offered them to him.

“Here, I brought ya a snack. Put some meat on them bones. But we’ll stop pretty soon for the main event, a hot breakfast and a bathroom break.”

Dean held the gently offered sandwiches in his hands like they were gold, but didn’t open them. He just looked at the man quizzically.

“Go ahead, son, eat,” the man said with a nudge.

Dean nodded brokenly to himself. Given formal permission, or more accurately, ordered, to eat, Dean mechanically began to open one of the plastic wrapped sandwiches. It had been a long time since he had anything but K rations or nutritional mix, an oatmeal-like, tasteless substance he had eaten at his master’s feet.

“So, what do I call you other than ‘boy’?” he asked gently. “I'm Ted by the way”.

Dean looked over at him, eyes wide. His name. What was his name? It had been so long since someone asked. He was ‘boy’, but he was also ‘whore’, ‘pet’, ‘cocksucker’, ‘idjit’, and ‘slave’. No one any longer bothered to call him Dean.

“Dean, mas—sir,” he croaked and reached for the bottle of soda.

“Well, Dean, it seems to me that you’ve found yourself in more trouble than one feller really should ever get themselves into. Want some aspirin for that back?” Ted gestured toward the glove box. “It ain’t much, but it might take some of the sting away. For anything more serious we’ll have to wait until my misses gets at ya. She’ll fix ya right up.”

Dean stared at the man blankly then looked down. He didn’t want to be punished for looking into his eyes.

“They’re right in there. Take two at least,” Ted urged.

Dean fumbled slightly as he reached for the aspirin. His hands shook at the unfamiliar kindness as he swallowed the pills down.

They sat in companionable silence as Dean ate; he only barely managed to finish off half the sandwich but drank down all the pop. He carefully wrapped up the other half and quietly slipped the food into his new-to-him jacket. He hoped Ted wouldn’t take issue, but Dean didn’t want to let any extra food out of his sight if he could help it.

As Dean started to nod off again, Ted quietly suggested, ”Why don’t you get some more shut eye in the back? We’re about a half hour from my favorite stop. I’ll call ya. Ya can even close the curtain and make it nice and dark.”

Dean caught himself yawing again and climbed carefully into the back, but he left the curtain open.

When Ted went to close the curtain, Dean’s hand snaked out and grabbed the older man’s wrist. He released it instantly in horror as he realized he had touched the man without permission.

“S-sorry, mas – sir,” Dean stuttered in shock. When Ted did nothing more than look at him puzzled, he continued, “ No, nooo...it’s okay. I like the light.”

“Okay, son.”

As Dean laid his head on the slightly tobacco smelling pillow, he again had an overwhelming sense of safety and was lost to exhausted sleep before Ted turned his head back to the road.

 

: : :

 

The truck stop was like nothing Dean had ever seen. It was like a mega mall of truck stops with air conditioning units and TVs and generators that could be attached to the rigs if desired. It also had a Laundromat that looked like something built by NASA.

Dean shivered at the idea of leaving the cab. He didn’t want to risk being spotted but Ted was resolute. Dean rifled through the duffel and found a somewhat clean hoodie. He pulled it on, then brought the hood up over his head. At least he could make it difficult for them to track him.

As they neared the building, Dean became Ted’s second shadow. As his unease increased he had gone from trailing him closely to practically plastered to the man’s back, one finger tentatively hooked into his belt loop. He tried to repress the shivers of fear that ran through him and was endlessly gratefully when Ted gently took his hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly. It was going to be OK.

At the door, Francis at the cash register gave them both a sour look and said loudly, “Theodore Egar Berry, you should know better. No shirt, no shoes, no service,” as she glared pointedly at Dean’s grimy bare feet, and Dean had to resist the urge to slip further behind Ted.

“Now, Francis, darlin’, I was just hookin’ my boy up with some footwear. We’ll be to code in no time. You just hold that thought a second.”

 

: : :

 

Dean turned the water on in the shower. It was a tiny but scrupulously clean, modern bathroom in the truck stop complex. Ted had rented it for them after setting Dean up with new jeans, boots, a shirt, socks, and underwear. Ted said that if he was going to be stuck with him in the same cab for the next two days he had to smell better, and that meant Dean had to take a shower and then they’d see about some food.

He shoved Dean into the cubicle with the warning that they only had it for an hour, and he needed to have a shower and shave so to ‘hop to it, boy.’

Dean stood, numb, in the center of the room as he held his new clothes. His mind was having trouble encompassing Ted’s generosity. He started the shower running and set it a warm but not scalding temperature. He started to shiver and gripped the clothes tighter as flashes of other times in another bathroom ran through his mind.

 

: : :

 

They had been drinking fairly steadily all day with Dean crouched naked under the kitchen table, a chain tethering him to the radiator on the wall.

He was pulled by his collar from one man to the other to suck them off as they played cards. They occasionally reached down and cruelly played with his aching dick, a contest between them of who would make him come first without permission. His cock was wrapped in a cockring, but devices aside, he was under strict orders not to come. When the game first started, the men had taken great pleasure in toying with him and getting him red, hard, and leaking. Dean’s cock was so sore and sensitive now he thought it was going to burst through its skin and burn away, but he knew how the game was played, and the constant ache was no where near being looked after anytime soon.

Dean tried to breathe and stop the needy shiver of his body. He crouched silent and unmoving to ensure he went unnoticed for as long as possible, enjoying his brief respite, as the men played their game.

Dean knew they were getting seriously wasted when Fists suddenly yanked Dean over to his side of the table. Dean’s face was squashed roughly into Fists’ cock hanging out of his jeans. Unable to breath, let alone move enough to suck the man, he tried to turn his head from the grip on the back of his head, but Fists’ uncoordinated movements stopped him.

Fists suddenly lurched back drunkenly in his chair, falling backward onto the ground, letting go of Dean. “You fucking bristly bastard, you scraped me,” he yelled at Dean accusingly.

Suddenly released from the choking grip, Dean’s stomach lurched, and he crawled further back under the questionable safety of the table, head on the floor, kneeling in fear and unable to look at Fists. Quaking with fear, he felt like a chastised puppy who’d peed on the floor, but his humiliation didn’t change the reason for his anxiety.

“Come here, ya little bitch,” Fists said as he stood up.

His hand snaked out to grab the chain attached to Dean’s leg and hauled him by the ankle out into the open. A hand slammed into his face, and Dean wobbled under the blow. Fists quickly unlocked the chain from Dean’s ankle cuff as Dean lay there, dazed. With Dean released from the wall, Fists then grabbed his collar, dragging him full body into the bathroom. He moved so fast Dean wasn’t able to gain his footing until, suddenly, he found himself sprawled on the cold bathroom tile, gasping for breath, half choked from the drag on his throat.

“Ass up here on the sink, now,” Fists commanded.

Dean rushed to obey and hauled his sore and tender butt up onto the cold Formica vanity. He winced slightly, the beating from earlier that day making him careful and tentative.

“Gonna shave your bristly face; no more rug burn from you, ya little slut.” Fists began to search through his shaving kit for the straight razor.

Dean’s mind frantically tried to think of ways to distract him that wouldn’t get him in worse trouble. A drunk with a straight razor near his face was not a good combination.

“I want those hands holding the counter, boy. You let go and there’ll be hell to pay.”

From their nervous rubbing together in his bare thighs, Dean’s hands shot out to grab the counter edge he was sitting on. Even shit faced drunk, Fists could be eerily alert.

As Fists pulled the razor unsteadily from the bag in triumph, Dean gulped heavily. He stared in panic at his master’s wobbly hand, eyes wide. He looked over and saw Hands leaning against the bathroom doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest negligently. He'd been standing there watching for a while with an amused, not really drunk smile on his face.

He sauntered slowly into the room, past Fists, to come to rest between Dean’s bare legs. He pushed in slightly, forcing Dean to scoot back on the counter top to give him room. He gazed at Dean and leaned in to take hold of his stubbly face. His thumb rubbed absently over the gingery blond bristles that were starting to show at the late hour.

Dean shivered and tried to cast his eyes downward, resisting the useless urge to grovel and beg for a change of venue.

“I’ll shave him. You know how much I like it. I might even shave him down there. Depends on how good he is. Besides, you’re so drunk you might slit his throat.” Hands’ silky voice rolled over Dean. He resisted the urge to whimper in relief.

Fists grumbled but handed the razor over to Hands. “Fine, fine,” he chuckled in sudden good humor, ”I got a better idea anyhow.” He brought out the shaving cream and added it to Dean’s face himself. Then, instead of stepping back, he said, “Move over a bit, will ya?” and wedged himself between Hands and the counter. His face was directly in line with Dean’s red and throbbing dick.

“Let’s see how good he can be while you’re shaving him,” Fists said. “Now, if you want to keep that pretty neck in one piece, boy, I’d suggest you don’t move.”

Dean went rigid as Fists grabbed him roughly by the hips and pulled him suddenly forward so his aching cock was hanging out past the edge of the sink. His legs were pushed wider apart as he was forced to straddle Fists.

Checking to see that Dean’s hands were still holding on to the counter edge, Fists next prophetic words were, “Hold on, boy,” as he enveloped Dean in the soft warmth of his mouth.

It had been a long time since Dean had had anything soft or comforting wrapped around his dick. Even the presence of the restraining cock ring didn’t lessen the wondrous feeling. He had rarely in all the years of captivity by Hands, and certainly not Fists, had a moment of gentle attention. There were always pinches or hits or swipes of the whip to mar the occasion. This was pure, unvarnished pleasure. He didn’t take Dean in very far, just the head and enough to be able to swipe it leisurely, but Dean went rigid at the unbelievable feeling of having his own dick sucked.

He could hear Hands tsking at him, “Hold still now, wouldn’t want to slit your throat on the downstroke.” He grasped the side of Dean’s face and started the slow glide of the razor downwards. Dean tried not to flinch as Fists breathed in and started to bob up and down.

“That’s my good boy,” Hands crooned while Fists worked on Dean. “Yea… take it just like that, just don’t move your head…”   

 

: : :

 

As he broke free of the memory, Dean felt strangely weak and overwhelmed and fell to his knees, rocking. He keened silently as he hunched over the little bundle of clothes. He tried desperately to gather his thoughts, tried to drag up some spine and move, stop being so melodramatic. He dashed his hand across his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the wetness there, and growled at himself, “Snap out of it, princess.”

Slowly, he climbed to his feet and numbly began to strip out of the derelict’s stolen fatigues and shirt. He left them in a soiled pile in the corner under the sink, unable to think past each simple action. He took Ted’s bottle of shampoo in hand and moved toward the now steamy shower and climbed in, winced as the hot water hit his tender back.

Lost in thought that was no thought, Dean had no idea how much time had gone by as he stood beneath the soothing flow when he heard the sharp tap, tap, tap of someone knocking at the door. He climbed quickly out of the shower.

“Son, you done in there?” Ted Berry asked from outside the door.

The pounding at the door had jarred Dean out of his mindless fugue, and he rushed to obey. Dipping his head silently, Dean opened the door, towel held loosely at his side, naked before Ted, head bowed.

He was never to cover himself from his master. Always be available. Always ready.

Dean stood there frozen, towel held lax at his side as Ted rushed into the bathroom, eager to close the door on curious passersby. He quickly closed the door behind him. “Son, we gotta move it or I’ll have to pay for another hour’s rental. And ya should really cover yourself, boy. Anyone could see you,” Ted said, not harshly.

Confused, his mind muddled together the strict routines of his past with this new present. Ted’s gentle criticism had Dean slipping to the floor on his knees in bewildered fear, arms hugged round his chest.

His head bowed as he whispered brokenly, “I-I I’m sorry, master.”

He began to rock back and forth, hurt and humiliation radiating from him.

 

: : :

 

Ted looked stunned down at Dean’s kneeling body. Dean, near naked in the dark, encrusted with blood and dirt last night had been one thing. Now, under the bright lights of the shower cubicle, clean and kneeling before him, the signs of abuse were all too apparent.

A map of pain was all Ted could think as he gazed across Dean’s pale, gently freckled back at the purple and black and yellow bruises running up and down the boy’s spine and shoulders and legs. He saw a large, dark mark on Dean’s hip, and Ted had to breathe in slowly in order not to scare Dean with his reaction as he realized what he was looking at.

The boy had been branded. This was no tattoo or bruise; this was a burnt-into-the flesh-like-livestock, honest to god brand. Ted thanked his stars he hadn’t eaten yet or it would have been on the floor with Dean’s discarded clothes. As if that weren’t enough, from what Ted could only guess was the force of the shower, newly opened, red licks of blood ran along what could only be whip marks that crisscrossed Dean’s back with despairing frequency. Ted rubbed his face and tried to remain calm.

The black collar, ‘Slave collar’ Ted knew was a more accurate term for it, and the wrist and ankle cuffs were still on the boy. As he looked at them for the first time in the light, he saw they were not the play ones that unbuckled like on TV shows. These were stitched and crimped with tiny metal grommets closed tightly round the boy’s extremities. Only a heavy knife or nippers of some kind would free Dean of them. Ted mentally noted that that would be a priority upon arrival home.

“Oh god, son, get up, don’t kneel to me. I ain’t your master.”

He gently coaxed Dean up off the floor. Although Dean was taller than Ted by several inches, as he hunched and shivered with his head bowed he seemed strangely smaller and far more fragile. Ted had never seen anyone so broken.

“Now, no worries, son, we’ll just get you dressed and cleaned up and you’ll feel like a new man.” Ted gently coaxed Dean toward the sink. “Now, son, we’ll get you shaved up and lookin’ like new.”

Dean jerked back from Ted, pushing himself up against the wall, a mute pleading radiating from his eyes as he shook his head back and forth, _No_.

“Now, son, it’ ain’t a big deal. Here, you can do it yourself. I picked up a few a those disposables. I'm not much of a shaving man myself.” Ted’s eyes twinkled as he pulled on his own slightly scruffy beard as evidence.

Dean continued to shake from his place plastered against the wall.

Ted gently pressed the blue disposable razor into Dean’s hand. Dean looked down at his own hand in terror. The boy’s hand shook so hard, Ted was afraid he would cut himself.

“S’all right, s’all right, I kin do it for ya this time if ya ain’t feelin’ up to it. Would that be okay?”

Ted watched as the tension slowly bled from the man’s body. He suspected that part of Dean’s freak out was touching the razor. Ted was beginning to recognize the signs when Dean zoned out because of some tripped memory or other, and the boy had that gone look in his moss green eyes right now. Considering the state the boy was in, touching any sharp pointy object had probably been a punishable offence. Ted felt a slow rage build inside him and wanted to lay hands on the men who had so traumatized Dean that he couldn’t even shave himself without experiencing complete terror.

Ted didn’t know what horrors Dean shaving himself held exactly, at this point was scared to know, but if the boy was alright with Ted doing it, it was the least of Ted’s worries with the battered lad.

“Now. Take it easy there, Dean.”

Ted took the shaking hand in his and freed the razor from Dean’s panicked grip. “One step at a time. First we’ll get the shaving cream on.”

Dean’s eyes rolled like a frightened stallion, but all Ted did was as promised and applied a rough smear of the cool shaving cream across his bristled face.

“There ya go, now to start the shavin’. You okay, boy?” Ted looked up into Dean’s eyes, and Dean gulped down a breath and nodded once, _yes_ , his hand grasping the edge of the sink in a death grip as the first slice of the razor panned across his cheek.

Dean flinched and looked at Ted again in a kind of shocked wonder.

Ted chuckled, tugged Dean slightly forward toward the mirror and said, “See, Dean, nothing to it, we’ll have you purdied up in no time flat. Take a look here in the mirror. A good shower and a shave and you’ll start to feel your old self.”

 

: : :

 

Dean jerked at the use of the word pretty, shivered. How often had he been taunted with the words pretty or beautiful? He hated those words, hated the face that inspired them.

He had waited for the cruel nick of the blade or the dry dragging tug of straight razor across unlubricated flesh, or the impatient taunting to begin, but it was just a gentle glide as kind eyes watched him.

He gazed into the mirror as Ted continued. Dean saw pale skin with a dusting of freckles, gingery blond stubble slowly disappearing with each stroke of the razor, and too long, dirty blond hair. And of course his often commented upon lips, those cock sucker lips…

Dean didn’t understand what inspired such lust when people looked at him, but he knew it happened. Maybe it was something evil inside him that brought this on, something he deserved, some sign that everyone could see but him. Did Ted know he got hard when they took him? Not all the time, but often enough. The pain wasn’t enough to blot out the pleasure. Only a whore could want that, only a slut could get aroused at the things Dean had.

He looked away; he didn’t need to be reminded of how weak he was.

 

: : :

 

After he was shaved and dressed, Ted ushered the strangely docile boy out of the shower and into the busy restaurant, intent on food.  He knew right away as they entered the large, noisy cafeteria area that this was not the good idea he had first thought it was. The restaurant was too loud and too bright and overwhelmed the boy as he shivered behind Ted. His hand gently curled through one of Ted’s belt loops like an anchor against the crowd.

He decided on the spot to order take out and get them back to his truck as fast as possible. As they left with a greasy bag in hand, Ted thought longingly of the shower he wouldn’t get. But it was becoming all the more clear to him just how much he didn’t know about the terror stricken boy trailing obediently behind him.

: : :

 

Ted had been driving for several hours now, Dean curled up in the other seat. Ted noted that Dean always made himself as small as possible whenever he was still. Maybe if he’d had the boy’s track record he’d have gotten good at disappearing too.

Dean didn’t seem to want to talk much and dozed in and out as Ted drove. By nature Ted wasn’t that talkative a fellow either, so the silence suited him fine. He wasn’t even much for the radio, so their only accompaniment was the drone of the wheels on the road, the sound of the traffic and the wind.

Ted thought more about Dean. God, all he seemed to think about was Dean and the puzzle that was the boy. He would never be able to tell another soul how much Dean’s pitiful pleading and whimpering in his dreams had hurt him to witness last night. It wasn’t just a one time thing. Anytime Dean nodded off, his sleep was invariably filled with screams and whimpers and half mumbled begging that curled Ted’s stomach.

He dropped any idea of letting the kid off early as he had said before. Whatever that kid had been through, Ted wasn’t ever going to let him go back to it. He was going to keep him safe.

Besides, it was the Christian thing to look out for the boy. Ted realized that there was far more going on here than he had ever guessed. He’d thought the boy had had one hook up go wrong, but from what he saw of Dean’s battered body, and with the collar and cuffs so permanently attached, Ted knew this had been sustained abuse and probably rape. Ted shook his head, not really understanding what could drive someone to treat another that way. Now maybe if they’d tasted his wife’s cooking, he smirked, but not without some provocation. It just didn’t make any kind of sense.

They settled into a routine of quiet meals in the cab and sporadic conversation. It was a companionable quiet though, and Ted sensed Dean needed the time to think and collect himself after his ordeal. There were two times Ted caught some sleep in the bunk. Dean sat curled quietly in the passenger seat and didn’t move. The boy seemed eerily good at waiting.

“So, ya got any kin, son? Anyone that we could call?” Ted asked as they made their way across Nevada.

Dean looked up at him and glanced quickly down at the floor of the cab. “N-no s-sir”.

“No one at all, son, no brothers, sisters, aunts, or uncles?” Ted had hoped, but wasn’t surprised at Dean’s answer. Some poor souls just had nothing.

“I –I used to have a brother…S-Sammy.” Dean’s voice caught in a sob. “H-He was my younger brother, and I looked out for him. Our dad was away a lot. B-but he’s not coming for me. No one is.”

“Well, god didn’t bless everyone with a full deck a family, and tell ya the truth, I could do with one or two less a what I got dealt. Don’t worry, Dean, we’ll get ya fixed up. Just wondered if there was someone we could get a hold of.”

Worried, he glanced over at Dean and saw that he had curled his arms tightly around his legs and had rested his face on his knees, rocking gently and looking away from Ted. Ted sighed softly and mentally kicked himself for stirring the pot.

By the time they pulled in to his home in Torrance, California, Ted had a notion of what to do. It would involve his brothers’ help, but he didn’t think that would be a problem. 

The first thing they did upon arrival was go out back to Ted’s tool shed, and Dean sat quietly as Ted cut his collar and cuffs off of him. Dean touched his neck in wonderment after and swallowed softly. He watched as Dean’s eyes lit up as he swallowed without his Adam’s apple hitching on the too tight collar, probably for the first time in years.

With Ted’s busy trucking schedule, and his wife’s job at the clinic, there would be no one home most days to keep an eye on Dean, and Ted thought the boy needed a bit of watching over, at least for the next little while.

His brother, Lawrence, ran a small garage for older model cars on the outskirts of Torrence. It was a quiet place with just a few employees, and Ted could see Dean fitting in well there. He could still come and stay with Ted and Doreen on weekends or when Ted wasn’t working, but Lawrence would be there everyday as well as his wife, Irene. It could be a great fit, Ted thought hopefully.

One of the few times on the road that Ted had had even an inkling of trouble with the rig, Dean had had a few really good ideas and seemed a quick study. The boy might even have some real talent with cars. Who knew? But the secluded location would be good for Dean, who seemed quite spooked of larger groups. It would give him a chance to find normal.

: : :

 

“So, this is Dean.”

Dean watched as Ted introduced him to his brother, Lawrence. It was easy to see the two men were related. They both had the same bright, kind, blue eyes, the same shaped nose and spectacles, but where Ted still had some hair, Lawrence was as bald as an eagle. Where Ted was 5’11 or so, Lawrence barely hit 5’8” or 9” and was decidedly portly.

Lawrence stuck his hand out to Dean to shake, and Dean carefully reciprocated, trying not to flinch as Lawrence’s grip tightened. Dean still found touching and talking and well… near about everything to do with interacting with people to be difficult. He hoped that wasn’t going to get him in trouble with Lawrence.

He felt so open and exposed all the time, like the world had no sides, nothing to hold on to. He hoped it didn’t show.

Out here he felt more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in captivity. In captivity he knew the rules, knew the parameters and what would result in punishment and what could keep him relatively pain free most days. Now, everything seemed too vast, too many decisions, too many ways to screw up. Maybe this was that Stockholm Syndrome he’d heard about in movies, but he’d never been to Sweden.

“So, you know your way around a car at all, boy?” Lawrence asked.

“Sss—ome s-sir…I-I used to do a lot of work on my dad’s ‘67 Impala, but I’m no expert. I guess I can change oil and filters with the best of them though and a few other things…”

Dean’s voice came out soft and trailed away as his gaze lowered and now fixed on the ground beneath Lawrence’s feet. Whatever he did, he didn’t want to mislead Lawrence as to how good a mechanic he was or wasn’t. Dean wasn’t even that sure himself anymore.

”Well, I guess we’ll try you out on a few things and see what you can do. Sound like a plan?” Lawrence enquired.

Dean nodded.

“But for the next little while we’re just gonna let Dean settle in and take it easy and heal, right, Lawrence?” Ted interjected. “No need to work the boy to death his first week here. Besides, if the Mrs. finds out you put Dean to work right away, there’ll be hell to pay. She wanted him to rest up and get fattened up by some of Irene’s great cooking. Lord knows Dean wouldn’t put on any weight at our house.”

Dean smirked a little to himself. That was the truth. Poor Doreen, she couldn’t boil water, and the few days Dean had stayed with them, weight gain hadn’t really been something in the cards. No wonder Ted was the slim brother.

Unperturbed by Dean’s silence, Lawrence had continued to walk from the house where Ted had first pulled up across the lot toward the garage. He chatted quietly with Ted as Dean trailed along behind.

As they approached the building, Lawrence glanced back at Dean and said, “So, this here is the front of the operation. [Anna Colt](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1566486/) runs the cash and books the appointments, so that’s not a worry. Any supplies we’re running short of or anything you need, you go to her and she’ll order it. Anna, meet Dean. Dean, this here is Anna.” Lawrence gestured to a stunning red head working at the counter in the front office of the garage.

Dean glanced up at the beautiful woman and could feel the blush hit the tips of his ears. He nodded silently at the woman and tried to give her a smile, but it may have looked more like a grimace with his nerves. He looked quickly back down at his feet. Dean wondered when it was he had ever been smooth with the ladies.

“Hi, Dean, anything you need you just let me know,” she said cheerily. “You going to introduce him to that lunk-head of a brother of mine and his friends?” Anna asked.

“That’s our next stop sugar, and I’ll be sure to point Chris out to Dean” Lawrence smiled fondly at Anna and steered Dean toward the main garage.

“So this here is the heart of the operation Dean, that’s Joe over there on the Chevy and José and Chris, working on the Ford. Fella’s this is Dean, he’s gonna be workin’ on my babies in the old garage, so help him out with whatever he needs to get going.” All the men nodded or waved in friendly greeting and Lawrence continued on with his walkabout. He pointed out the various equipment in the four bays and where supplies were stored. Dean noticed that they were all working on slightly older model cars, pre-computer vehicles, certainly not anything foreign or exotic, and he sighed with relief; this was something he could handle.

Lawrence’s tour lead them toward the back of the lot. He and Ted caught up on family news and business as Dean let his mind soak in the feel of the place. The next stop was a more deserted outbuilding behind the main garage. It turned out to be an older garage that was partially abandoned when the newer, larger building was built. Inside were two bays and in the first an older ‘60s model car was ensconced, a rusted and tired looking ‘67 Pontiac Firebird in a pale faded red, and the second bay held a dusty blue, bedraggled Dodge Charger. Nothing quite as good as the Impala, but Dean’s heart beat quickened with interest.

“So here’s where I kinda thought you could work once you’re up to it, Dean. These here are sort of my pet projects, refurbing these babies. But truth to tell, with the business and the scrap yard and all, I don’t get to work on them as much as I’d like, and a couple a customers are chompin’ at the bit to buy ‘em once I got ‘em done. It’s all body work and scavenging from the junk yard to try and get them back into shape. We’re not talking gleaming remodels on Motor Week, but I want ‘em to be pretty and work, if ya get my drift?”

Dean looked at the two late model cars currently occupying the garage, and he couldn’t help but feel the skitter of hope in his chest at the thought of restoring them to usefulness. Doing something productive. Joy tangled in Dean’s chest and then he swallowed hard and looked down. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, assume anything... didn’t want to want too much.

“So, son, is this something you think you could do? If not, I could just have ya cleaning up in the main garage, helpin’ the boys. But if you think you could take this on that, well, that would be mighty fine. I can help ya out a bit at first, get you oriented and make sure you know what you’re doing…” Dean knew that Lawrence and Ted were both looking at him expectantly.

He swallowed briefly and said, “Y-yes, sir, I think I can help here.”

“Great, son, great.”

Lawrence’s enthusiastic slap on Dean’s back had Dean cringing and pulling back in pain before he could stop himself.

Understanding what had happened, Ted edged over, took hold of Dean’s bicep, and said kindly, “Ya okay, son?”

Dean swallowed down the pain and nodded. He tried to look Lawrence in the face and nod positively.

Lawrence looked puzzled, said, “Sorry, son, sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

Dean smiled weakly at him as they continued their tour.

“So, the last part to show you is your room, or what could be your room with a bit of elbow grease. This building used to be a gas station before the main garage was built, and there was an office and bathroom at the back. It could do ya as your room if ya like it. Would give ya some privacy and all. If it ain’t to your liking, you could still stay up at the main house with the Mrs. and I. You’d still get all your meals up with us one way or the other. There ain’t no kitchen here, but I thought maybe you’d like a space of your own, and we could always hook you up with a hot plate and a kettle. You can fix it up however you like. I even got some extra paint if you feel like paintin’ her up.”

Dean walked into the little back office, unsure what to expect. It wasn’t that big, and the two windows letting in bright afternoon light were small and placed high on the wall. Dark, fake wood paneling and lurid flower wall paper decorated the walls. It reminded him of a lot of the trashy hotel rooms he and Sammy and Dad had stayed at over the years.

The carpet was as close to AstroTurf as you could get without buying a ticket and there were stacks of old cartons full of all manner of books and decorations and old car catalogs, a mishmash of personal and garage related detritus. Several pieces of abandoned and broken furniture also cluttered up the space, but those could be moved, Dean thought. He’d seen way worse, hell, he’d stayed in way worse.

The bathroom was sort of what he’d expected, given the outer room, old and sadly out of date with fake marbled glass and a seashell basin - a blast from the ‘70s. It was a wonder the tub and toilet weren’t lavender. But it was all relatively clean and everything seemed to work, right down to the sputtering shower. Best of all, he would have a double bed all to himself.

 

: : :


	3. Stumbling Towards the Spires of Freedom

  


  


: : :

The next day, Dean and Ted were back at his prospective new digs. They spent the morning moving and cleaning, getting the place cleaned up.

They worked in relative silence. Dean still found it hard to initiate conversation, and thankfully, Ted didn’t seem to need much to go on, so it was a companionable time spent lugging and scrubbing. By late afternoon, Dean was both exhausted and exhilarated at the progress.

The floors sparkled, and thanks to Irene’s washing machine up at the house, all the bedding was fresh and crispy and squeaky clean. The bathroom had been given the once over at least twice, once by Ted and then again by Dean, and all the old furniture and boxes of stuff had been moved to one of Lawrence’s storage rooms in the new garage. The only exception was the sack of road salt that Dean had squirreled away, ignoring Ted’s raised eyebrows.

He’d also found a stash of old Auto-body News that Dean thought might come in handy, and then later, a stack of 50s porn that Dean had found in one of the boxes. “Well, alrighty,” the old Dean would have said, while the new Dean just looked at them in mild amusement and curiosity before setting them aside.

Although the idea of sex slightly repelled Dean, he remembered a time when he used to like sex, a lot, actually… Before…well, dammit, a man might have needs someday. Dean shrugged and tucked them away, a little embarrassed that they might catch Ted’s questioning gaze. Besides, the Film Noire cheesy covers made Dean chuckle.

Fifties porn was certainly, at least from the illustrations on the cover, a lot tamer than the modern stuff Dean critiqued. The ‘50s era nurse had a saucy bobbed hair do and was draped over the desk with delicate panties mid thigh. One leg was bent up at the knee and she looked back over her shoulder at the naughty leering doctor with an expression that shyly spoke of gentler pleasures.

Dean shuddered slightly, and his expression became somber. He wondered if he’d ever like sex again or be able to have a real relationship. It wasn’t like his life on the road with Dad and Sam really led to in depth relationships, but he’d enjoyed his time with the ladies.

Now, he was an ex-sex slave, and a gay one at that, having serviced his two masters and their assorted male cronies for the last three years. He didn’t even know if he was gay or not, knew he’d come, been made to come multiple times, and sometimes even kind of enjoyed it, but...was he gay now? Dean didn’t know.

He didn’t understand the feeling of violation that ran through him, the sudden vulnerability he felt. It was all a little bit overwhelming to think about, and Dean kind of preferred it when the back of his brain worked these kind of things out so he didn’t have to put it all together with words. The words made it too real, made it hurt too much.

Sighing, Dean stretched and cracked his back, and realized that for the first time in a long time, his weariness was an honest, wholesome one. It wasn’t mental, from stress and fear, or the result of whips and chains; he was actually just sore. He hadn’t done so much physical labor in years, and he was getting tired.

His pride wanted him to have more staying power than the 60 year old man that labored alongside him, but as he began to run out of steam, he just didn’t care. He ached, and he was ready to quit now. But it was a good, clean, bright ache, and best of all, he smirked, no blood was involved.

Ted was dusting his ball cap off like he had come to a similar conclusion. Suddenly shy, he looked over at Dean and said, “Well, I think that about does it, son. I think all we need now are a few beers and to kick up our heels to celebrate.”

Dean nodded in agreement, sighed, and sat on the edge of his new bed. 

“Can you do an old man a favor and go get the beer and chips outa my truck? I have ta say I’m near tuckered out. They’re in the crisper in the back. The Mrs. packed em. Knew we’d need a reward at the end of the day.”

Dean smiled at Ted’s thoughtfulness, rose quickly, and walked out of the building towards Ted’s pickup truck. He allowed himself to relax and unwind and didn’t try to hide the weariness he felt, just let himself settle into the satisfaction of a job well done. He stopped midway to the truck and shivered slightly. He felt an almost invisible hand clamp down on his neck.

_Master!_

He jerked and spun around, almost dropping to his knees in fear and nausea at the idea that his master was there, that he was outside, out without his master, without permission.

Breathing in quickly, Dean held his hand to his gut to try and quell the feeling. No one was there, no one was even close.

Chastising himself, Dean wondered when he became such a scaredy cat that he couldn’t even walk to a pick up.  But another, grimmer part of him knew, knew why he felt like he was drowning in submission, ready to curl to his knees in anticipation of pain. He knew there were dark things out there, dark things there that had broken him to their will and would hurt him again if they had the chance.

Dean slapped himself mentally and thought he had to get ahold of himself. He was a hunter, goddamn it, or he used to be. He had faced down succubi and black dogs and incubi and demons. No one had gotten the jump on him this time. He could damn well walk across a parking lot in midday without the permission of his fucking master. Couldn’t he?

He continued on and grabbed the beers and chips almost angrily. Why was freedom so hard? Striding back from the truck quickly, he tried to convince himself his haste was in anger, not in fear, but his shaky courage felt brittle and ready to fail as he hurried to the sanctuary of his apartment.

As he entered the garage, he tried to get a grip on the feelings of despair that threatened to overwhelm him before he returned to the bedroom where Ted waited. The unsettled feelings had lingered from yesterday. Everything seemed to be spinning away from him, and he felt suddenly alone. Even Ted was going to be taken away from him by his work.

Dean wasn’t used to feeling lost; everything had been planned for him for years now, every movement had been controlled by someone else, and there was an odd surety in the knowledge that someone else was totally in control. Dean wasn’t a coward, but it sort of simplified things in a way that wasn’t there now. Now, Dean had to shoulder that burden, and he felt overwhelmed by it.

Gritting his teeth slightly, Dean decided that maybe freedom was a case of fake it till you make it, and firming up his shoulders, he went back in to join Ted.

Ted toasted their hard day’s work and snapped the caps off a couple of bottles, then they clinked their beers together. The Dean of old would have tilted back his neck and chugged nearly the whole beer down in one go after an afternoon like this of hot, sweaty work. He would have toasted Sam and tapped bottles from a hunt well done and let the cool, malty, golden liquid pour down his throat without a care.

_Sammy laughing, long legs sprawled out in front of him as they sat on the hood of the impala. Golden light of the sunset casting shadows on his face, light catching on his impossibly wide, dimpled smile._

Dean caught himself; he couldn’t think about Sam. Slips like that would only get him in a bad place.

Focused on the beer in hand, this new Dean only took small, careful swigs and savored the taste in his mouth carefully. It was like ambrosia. He huddled the bottle in on himself, almost hiding it, like he feared it would be taken away from him.

He looked at the bottle again in slight amazement but still couldn’t force himself to do more than finish it slowly, savoring each sip, all his attention focused on this one simple act.

In the background, Ted chatted about weird things he’d had happen on the road over the years and how bad Doreen’s cooking was, and about that the black cat they had once that had disappeared. Ted had loved it, but Doreen had hated it and constantly fed it their leftovers. Ted could only believe it left because of Doreen’s cooking. Smart cat.

Ted’s gentle patter seemed to calm Dean’s inner turmoil. If Ted noticed Dean’s silence, or lack of involvement in the conversation, Dean was grateful he didn’t say anything.

After a few beers and a few more stories, Ted stood up from the aged, chrome orange chenille chair, groaned, and stretched a little. He looked over at Dean sitting on the edge of the bed and said, “Well, I got to be going, Dean. I got to head out to Reno in the morning, and the Mrs. wants me home early. You gonna be okay here tonight, here with Lawrence? I haven’t really told him much. Hell, kid, I’m not sure I really know much, ‘cept it seems clear to me you been hurt real bad.”

Dean had to look away at the unquestioning kindness that shone out of Ted’s eyes.

Ted continued, “I thought…well,” he tried to rush through it, “I thought if you wanted him to know you’d tell him yourself. He’s a good guy, Dean, and he knows you were running from something bad. That’s all I really told him.”

Dean forced himself to look back over at Ted. Ted, who out of sheer kindness had taken him, a complete stranger, in. He’d clothed him and fed him and not asked too many questions. Dean could never repay that kindness. He could only try and be worthy of it.

He blinked back the sudden wetness in his eyes. He didn’t want to think too hard and make this some kind of chick flick moment, not here, not in front of Ted. He’d have to think about all this when he was finally alone.

Dean’s voice was soft but gruff with emotion when it finally came out. “I’ll be fine, Ted. I-I really want to thank you for everything you’ve done. I-I…” Dean trailed off.

“I know, son,” Ted countered. “You just take care, and I’ll be back in just over a week. I’ll check in on you as soon as I get back. Now, Irene’ll have supper waiting on you in a couple a hours up at the house. Don’t be shy, ‘cause that woman can really cook. Not like some other women we know, eh?” Ted smiled. “Now, take care, boy.” Gruffly, Ted hugged Dean, careful of his back, and made his way to his half ton truck outside.

Dean trailed along behind him and waved as he left. As Ted drove away, Dean resisted the urge to panic. He was alone.

_Alone._

He was still safe… Lawrence was okay, Lawrence was a good guy. They couldn’t find him here, could they? Dean sighed, scrubbed his face, and turned back toward his new home. Try and grow a spine, why don’t ya? He scolded himself. Yea, he was safe, he thought, for now at least. Safe and alone for the first time in over three years.

Shaking his head, he walked back to his new place and decided with a sense of sudden bravado that free men could take naps whenever they wanted and that was just what he was going to do. But first he’d have to salt the windows and doors.

 

: : :

 

He gained consciousness suddenly. He jerked his head up in the darkness and then slumped down again almost immediately as the sudden movement kicked off excruciating pain in the back of his head. Slumping back to the ground, panting through the pain, he realized he was in total darkness and was lying on a cold, hard surface. From the chill on his skin, he knew he was completely naked. He groaned as he raised his hands toward his face but went stock still at the sound of chains clanking at his wrists.

“What the…” he croaked out brokenly, but the sound came out muffled.

His hands continued their journey to his face. The darkness around him felt too confined and stuffy, and he could have sworn his eyes were open. Nothing made sense, but then it did as his hands hit the rough spun fabric of the hood that covered his face.

The hood was held on by some kind of collar around his neck. As he began to feel around the back of his neck to see where it was connected, his hands came to a sudden stop. The chain at his wrists came up short.

He started to carefully roll to his feet and was unsurprised to find that his feet were cuffed, or maybe chained, together with just a few short inches of play between each ankle. Then he made an uglier discovery as he raised his head and was abruptly yanked to a standstill. The hood was tethered like his hands, and there were just ten or so inches of slack between it and the ring Dean soon discovered embedded in the floor. He was left unable to sit up.

It came to him that with all these chains he could either kneel, head bowed, or lie on the ground near the hood’s tether bolt, but that was about it for his available positions. He searched his mind for why something would want to chain him up like that, but he drew a blank. The last thing he remembered was he had been walking down the back hall of the bar to go have a piss and then nothing. Maybe he just suffered from a lack of imagination, but even for the kinds of monsters they hunted this really wasn’t their M.O. or something he had heard of before.

Dean lay back on the hard floor, the pain of his head competing with the confused, pounding dizziness in his heart. Then, disturbingly close to him, he heard a slight scrape of a chair. He felt something prick his arm and felt even dizzier as the shot took effect.

 

: : :

 

A vaguely familiar voice spoke in the darkness.

“Ah, you’re awake. Time to introduce you to your new life, Dean.”

The next thing he knew he was being manhandled back onto his knees, a large hand at the back of the neck holding him still in his chains. Before he even had time to struggle, a knife was held to his chest. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the blade biting into him slightly as it drew blood. He cried out in pain and then felt the shock of a blunt head probing at his bottom entrance. The threat was implicit.

He froze, then he felt rage boil up through him at this messed up situation and cursed and swore. “No, no no, this is just wrong, let me loose, you son of a bitch.”

Dean struggled in his chains in spite of the threat of the knife but got nowhere. He wasn’t even able to dislodge the man looming over him, but he was beyond caring as he bucked and heaved.

“Fight me like a man, you creep. Is this the only way you can get a date? That’s pretty fucking pathetic, you know.”

He heard a dark chuckle and the blade holding hand gave a warning nick to Dean’s throat. He felt his words dry up with a pained grunt. The hand retreated, and a moment later, he felt that hand pushing his cheeks further apart.

Dean felt real fear lace through his belly as his body was shoved forward brutally and his knees were spread, leaving him completely exposed.

A blunt head pushed punishingly forward against his unprotected hole. He felt a strange pressure followed by a flare of pain as it shoved through his entrance.

He froze.

Something far too large and dry was entering him. It forced its way further into his unwilling flesh. Dean sucked in a pained breath and tried to breathe through the worst of it.

He didn’t want to give his attacker the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

He knew, at least theoretically, that if he could relax it wouldn’t hurt so bad, but goddamn, having a tree-trunk stuck up his ass didn’t lend itself to relaxing. The tearing continued until Dean felt a wet trickle of his own blood start to lubricate his rape.

He wished himself far away from there.

Dean had never had any curiosity about sex with men; he had been content enough with the women in his life. Men had never really been an avenue he had been tempted to explore, certainly not with no prep and no warning, chained in the dark with a Louisville slugger pounding up his ass.

The only sounds were Dean’s unwilling grunts of pain at each harsh thrust and the shocked whimpers he couldn’t contain.

That was until a harsh whisper in his ear as he began to black out.

“Mine. You’re mine now, Dean.”

 

: : :

 

When Dean came to next, it was to his arms being unclipped and pulled around behind him and then his body being rolled onto its back. He grunted in discomfort at the sudden change of position, long numb arms awakened and screamed in protest. Then he felt the sting of another shot in his arm.

“Christos”, he gasped out and was rewarded with a low, dark chuckle.

“No demons here, Dean, just us hunters”.

He felt his mind slow down as the drugs entered his system and he tried to force the words inside him out before they were trapped. “W—ww-hy? W-Why?” Dean demanded brokenly as the drugs grabbed hold and left him drained. His mind was a stew of confusion.

“This is your new reality, Dean, we are your new home. Nothing’s your call anymore, you just have to get used to that. We’ve had enough of your high and mighty Hunter tactics sweeping in and screwing up perfectly good jobs like you own the world. So we’re removing some of the pieces from the board, and at least one of them is you. You’re not a hunter anymore, Dean. But count yourself lucky, you’re too pretty to kill so we found a better use for you now. You’re gonna be our little bitch. And I can’t wait to make sure you understand just how things work now, how you work now. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, Dean.”

As Dean’s chained legs were shoved up to squash against his chest, he again felt something at his sore and now cringing hole.

“Welcome home, Dean,” he heard, and screamed as the cock slammed brutally home, bottoming out on Dean’s soul.

 

: : :

 

There were two of them. They both seemed intent on breaking him. Each new rape seemed to have its own accompanying lesson on how to obey, how to beg, how to beg to be fucked – all with Dean as their unwilling pupil.

The only thing they’d given him since he had arrived was water, and he was too thirsty to refuse it. He thought they must have added something to it as he found himself hard all the time now. Dean raged at them when he realized what they were doing to his body. He called them freaks and perverts and demanded to know why they were doing this, but he never got any answers. After a while alone and isolated in the dark, his mind started to play tricks on him as he thought he heard Sam and Dad’s voices, but help never came.

At first he struggled, hurting himself with the strength of his bucking and jerks that had his wrists, neck and ankles a bleeding, aching mess in their chains but the results were the same. Then the drugs got ramped up and Dean operated in a fuzzy haze that was so much worse because of his lack of control.

The voices asked him after a few days of the drugged fog if he was going to be a good boy, to obey, or they’d keep him on the drugs forever. The idea of no reality, just living in a vague, muffled dream world of darkness with no control whatsoever terrified Dean. He trembled in fear and whimpered, begging them to stop the drugs.

 

: : :

 

When he came back to himself, the drugs were dropped down a notch, but still present. He felt himself hauled roughly up from the cement floor onto his knees and, to his shock a rough hand grabbed his penis and something was slid on over it. Then a hot moist mouth descended on him and he gasped in shock. Heat enveloped his cock and Dean resisted the urge to let his head loll back on his shoulders as he experienced the first taste of pleasure since he awoke to this nightmare. A warm knowledgeable tongue slid under the sensitive head of his cock and wrapped him in velvety sensation. Firm suction had Dean shivering as he knelt frozen in shocked pleasure, and the firm bob of a head up and down his length soon had him hard and aching and filling the warm haven to bursting. Dean felt himself cycling towards climax, hard and panting, and straining. The tongue continued to twist and caress up and down his length, and as he finally let loose one lone gasp he was expelled from his temporary heaven, and left kneeling there, hard and leaking in the cold air of the chamber.

Dick bobbing in the breeze, straining towards fulfillment that wouldn’t come Dean dimly realized it was a cock ring that circled his hard and aching member and that he was going to stay that way until ‘they’ decided otherwise. He tossed his head in barely suppressed fury, in the oppressive darkness of the hood, another sick game played by these sick fucks. He resisted sobbing in frustration and twisted his bound hands in helpless rage. His mind spun in confusion, why?

One of them began to suck and lick at his nipples. The drugs that still ran through his system, hyped his reaction to the caresses. He could have screamed from the pleasure that zinged through him. He’d never felt this kind of intensity before in his life.

A large, powerful hand gripped the back of his neck and a voice shivered down his spine, “Beg to be whipped Dean. Beg me now or this continues.” Dean resisted the urge to tell the voice to go fuck himself, but after days, maybe weeks of captivity, self preservation had finally reared its head and Dean held his tongue, unsure of this new game. How could an excess of pleasure make him want pain? Dean knew about pleasure, hell Dean had fucked his first girl at the age of 13 on a Friday night after a school dance in the back seat of the Impala. His dad had been out with some drinking buddies and Sammy had stayed over with a friend after the dance so Dean was free to do what he wanted. And what he wanted was Sara Mitchell, long blond hair and lips like a hoover, an older woman at the ripe age of 14. Dean had scored a home run that night and never looked back, he knew a thing or two about taking pleasure, so bring it on bitches, you were dealing with a Winchester.

So, the sucking continued. He thought maybe they were taking turns, the two of them alternating between harsh and slow and fast and lingering. They moving between his nipples and dick and a wet trail between, till he was almost mindless with need. Time slowed down and then sped up and Dean shivered in shocky pleasure. They continued until his skin was so sensitive he felt like screaming. His dick became so sore that even the gentles touch of the unseen lips began to be torture and feel like the skin was going to peel away with each wet grating swipe. He twisted and writhed in his bonds, but they continued their relentless suction and pleasure became pain and Dean finally realized the game was lost and sobbed in agony. There was no relief in sight, no sight in the endless night of the hood, just a long tunnel of tormented touching that was no pleasure at all.

He should have known that they could twist even this simple thing into something ugly. He mewled in horror as his head dropped toward his chest in defeat, his breath gasping as a mouth relatched onto his penis for another round, moving again toward a culmination that would never come. And so finally he begged.

“P—please…” He wheezed between gasping breaths.

The tongue paused and slowly pulled off, a wet plopping sound that echoed in the room.

“Did you say something Dean? You’ll have to speak up, I couldn’t hear you?” the deep raspy voice growled out of the darkness.

“P—please, please stop. Please no more. I can’t take it.”

“Beg for what you need Dean. Beg now or it continues.”

“But…please, can’t we just stop? No more, why? What have I done?” Dean’s voice broke and he sobbed as the mouth again enveloped him, it’s intent clear.

Dean almost screamed in pain, and shouted, “Stop, please, stop. Beat me. Please, just beat me. No more… no more, please.” He gulped in sobbing breathes and shuddered. He wasn’t really begging to be whipped, he was begging to finish, to stop, to cease to exist, it all became a blur.

He shivered in relief as the mouth withdrew and his head was forced down toward his knees. A beating, he could take a beating. God, he could do that, he sagged in relief as he huddled on his knees protectively hunched over his aching cock, his head almost touching the ground. His ears cocked for the slightest sound, some clue as to what form this beating would take. Dean heard the soft tread of two pair of feet as they circled his kneeling body listened as they paused and then continued, felt the swoosh in the air of something, too close to his skin, taunting him, playing with him. Dean tensed at each pause, muscles strained and clenched, breath quickened. He felt like prey, trapped and helpless. The sharp whistle of the leather when it finally sliced through the air and connected with the soft unprotected curve of his ass was almost a relief. No more play, just to get it over with, to have this day end, even if in pain.

Like the pleasure before it, the strokes of the leather came fast and then slow, strong and then light; punishing blows spread well across his ass and back and bound arms. Dean lurched out of position as the twentieth blow landed. The hot sharp stroke landing along a previous cut and Dean could feel blood as it trickled down his side. Could feel the pain radiating through him as strongly as the pleasure before it as his mouth moved uncontrolled, gasping and whining. The hand returned to pull him into position and he froze as a cruel velvet voice spoke, suddenly too close to his ear.

“Now, let’s do it all again, shall we?”

Dean froze. His mind tipped towards madness as he felt himself pulled up and the moist hot lips again attached themselves to his aching cock. He gasped in pain as the liquid suction began to work on his still hard member trapped in the cock ring. Dean couldn’t speak, screams chocking in this throat, the sense of betrayal complete. He had trusted them. Done what they asked, begged. No, goddam it, no. No he wouldn’t, couldn’t.

The cycle was repeated again, pleasure to the point of pain then pain harsh and bright and unrelenting, then once more sucked to the point of madness then beaten to the point of insanity, then over again, and in spite of any want on his part his cock stayed red and aching. And at each point Dean was forced to beg.

And Dean begged. He begged them to stop, he begged them to kill him, he begged till his voice was a wrecked ruin. And as he lay there incoherent and nearly hysterical the whisky dark voice returned to whisper in his ear. “You’ve done so well, been such a good boy for us, now beg to be raped. That’s the only way this ride stops Dean.”

And something broke. Right. Then. In him. Inside.

His body thrumming with pain, overextended nerves short circuiting, halting and broken Dean begged. Begged for his own rape and his release; begged for this to stop, and as the words left his mouth it felt a little like he was shattering into a million pieces.

One of his tormentors released the cock ring from his scalded flesh and began to pound brutally home, pinching and twisting his nipples as they stripped his quivering, over-sensitized cock. Cruel hands moved to grip his hips and pin him down as they pounded down on his prostate with aching precision. He came in agony, clenching as he cried out and felt his insides coated with his captor’s release. His own gurgling culmination a rictus combination of humiliation and pain as he came untouched, ropes of hot come splattering across his hot aching chest. He sagged panting to the ground, and quivered as his overextended flesh sizzled with trapped tension.

A rough hand hauled up his head from where it had fallen to the ground and whispered in his ear through the hood, “Good boy Dean, good boy.”

The part of him not cringing in self loathing, basked in the praise. Spiraling towards unconsciousness a small still screaming part of Dean wearily realized that a time would come, all too soon, where conditioning like this could have him taking pleasure from the pain. That scared him more than any monster he had ever faced and he wondered briefly if the drugs were better than living like this.

 

: : :

 

_He dreamed of freedom, of him and Sammy as they jogged through the Vermont forest when they were in their teens. It was the summer of Dean’s 18 th birthday and they had stayed in South Bend for a while. Sammy had told him about some girl he thought he might ask to the junior prom and Dean had encouraged him to go for it. Sammy was still a bit pudgy at 14, and still pleasantly shorter than Dean in his dream, but Dean could see the seeds of growth in Sammy’s large feet and hands. Like a puppy yet to grow into its paws. _

_They seemed to run forever, happy and together on that beautiful, sunny spring day. As they finished up their run and approached their hotel, a sudden storm came up._

_The rain and thunder came out of nowhere and soaked them completely. Their Dad was standing outside the hotel room, he looked angry and Dean yelled out to him as they ran toward him, “Dad, what’s wrong… Dad?” but the rain washed away his father’s words and Dean ran to a halt._

_He found himself standing frozen, staring, across the vast expanse of the parking lot at his father, unable to move closer._

_Sammy was suddenly there standing next to his father, Dean hadn’t seen him move, he talked quietly to his father, but Dean couldn’t hear the words. After a quick glance at Dean his father turned his face away and refused to look at him again as he continued to speak with Sam. Dean called out to him again, “Dad, what is it, what have I done wrong?” but his father just shook his head and continued to look away. Dean shivered in the continued downpour, cold rain trickling down the back of his unprotected neck and leaking inside his already soaked hoodie as he waited. He watched as Sam finally finished speaking with his father and turned toward him, a look of utter disgust on his face. Stricken Dean called out “Sammy, what’s wrong? Sammy what did Dad say? Talk to me man.”_

_Sammy didn’t answer, only shook his head sadly and with one final look of disappointment and disapproval Sam and his Dad walked away._

_Dean cried out to them, but they didn’t answer and he was left alone and shivering in the rain._

Dean woke up alone, sweating under his hood and chained in the darkness. He wondered at the disgust on their faces and he thought he knew why.

 

: : :

 

During the brief periods when he was left alone to slump boneless to the floor, he tried to rest, tried to sleep. He knew he was already starting to hallucinate from lack of sleep, as he continued to mix up his tormentors voices with what he thought were Sam and Dad’s. Nothing was making any kind of sense.

He snorted beneath his hood in disbelief. A darkening awareness in him acknowledged that help might not be coming for him anytime soon– not Sam, not Dad. He barely held back a sob and tried to hardened himself to this new insane reality. No one knew where he was, no one was coming to his rescue. No one cared.

As he tried to relax into sleep, he remembered Sammy’s seventh birthday. Dean had surprised him with a complete castle made out of Rice Krispie squares that Dean had made the night before while Sammy slept.

Dad was away and Dean didn’t know when he was coming back. There wasn’t much food left in the house and no money to buy anything, nothing else to make a cake out of, but Sammy’s much beloved cereal.

After blowing out the thick, white emergency candle had Dean found under the sink, Dean made a game out of their forces fighting each other and the winner eating that part of the castle.

With squeals of glee, Sammy never realized how much more often his forces rushed to victory past Dean’s. Sammy was always so hungry, a bottomless pit. No wonder he ended up the taller one.

Dean smiled slightly as he fell into a fitful slumber he just had to try to hold on.

 

: : :

 

They hosed him down again, like an animal in the zoo. He’d been lying in a pool of his own filth and blood and cum for hours now. He shivered violently at the cold blast. 

They’d recently started to feed him small amounts of food. Not enough to stop the hunger, just some tasteless grain mix in a bowl on the ground.

At first his hood was raised just enough to eat and his head shoved into the bowl until he did or was beaten. Lately, he’d been made to beg for everything and he couldn’t find the strength to resist. The shots had stopped, but he muzzily realized they must be giving him something in his food, as the confused haze continued to linger over everything.

The two of them continued to take turns with his ‘lessons’. Rape seemed an integral part of getting through Dean’s thick skull what was expected of him now, their preferred method of pounding it home.

He could only think of his captors as ‘Hands’ and ‘Fists’.

Fists seemed to like hurting him more, but it was the moments of gentleness from ‘Hands’ that left him sobbing. With nothing but time on his hands in the darkness, he had wondered at the very broken feeling in his heart and why he couldn’t seem to come up with a plan for escape.

 

: : :

 

“Pease,” Dean begged. He struggled to come to his knees. “Please, I’ll be a good boy.”

The words were like glass in his throat, but he couldn’t take it anymore. Hands had been whipping him off and on for the last hour.

The longer length of chain at his throat now had meant he could try and crawl further away, but Hands was always there. No matter where Dean retreated to in his darkness, Hands was there, punishing, hurting.

Dean had started out his ‘day’ rebellious and defiant, but as the pain built along with the understanding that no other resolution but this would stop the beating, Dean had finally surrendered.

It was nothing more than that he justified, a momentary victory for the bad guys, it was only the sane thing to do. It wasn’t like giving up, or submission, it couldn’t be. He was still fighting wasn’t he?

He felt blood trickle down his back as he listed unsteadily where he knelt. A hand gripped the back of his neck harshly and the hood was lifted up above his mouth, a water bottle thrust in his dry and cracked lips. He tipped his head up and drank greedily like a baby calf nuzzling at its mother’s udder.

He knew the water was laced with something, could taste the medical flavor on his tongue. The hard-on he had been sporting forever just wouldn’t subside and the feeling of arousal mixed with pain was really starting to mess with his head.

He wondered numbly if there was even a point to him defying them at all. But some part of him couldn’t bring himself to give in any sooner, move his ‘training’ along any faster. He wasn’t sure what the next step was in their process, but his gut said it wouldn’t be good.

“Knees spread,” the voice said as his new owner walked around him.

Dean widened his legs immediately.

“Head down.”

Dean felt ashamed and blushed fiercely beneath his hood at how fast he rushed to comply. He lowered his head so his forehead was completely on the floor. It was more a controlled fall than a bend, his energy stores were depleted and his whole body shook from the adrenaline surge of the momentary respite from pain.

The large hand was back again and gently squeezed the nape of his neck, which only made Dean tremble more. The hand snaked around to pinch his right nipple, forced it to a peak then moved to his back where it lazily scratched a path through the whip marks there. Dean bit back an agonized cry as electric shards of pain jolted through his aching body.

“Gonna beg for my cock, slut? Gonna beg me to fuck you like a good boy?”

“I-I...”

“Come on now, you know what you need to do,” the voice coaxed.

“I-I...please ff-fuck me.”

“Now, now you know better than that.”

The slash of the crop came down across his back, and blazed a new path of pain along his spine.

“Ppleasee fuck mee, ssss-ir.”

“Better, but not what pleases me. Do you need another lesson, Dean?”

The riding crop slashed down five more times across Dean’s sore back.

“Ppleasee fuck mee, mmmmasterrr,” Dean sobbed once he could speak again.

“Ah, now that’s a good boy. And just for that I’ll give you a little treat while I fuck you. And if you’re really a good boy, maybe it can stay off. Gonna see that pretty face of yours. Gonna watch you cry, watch you break.”

As the hood was pulled up off Dean’s face for the first time in what must have been at least a month, Dean snapped his eyes shut, afraid of what the light might do to them. The burning ache in his back was momentarily suspended by the feel of fresh air on his skin.

Dean gulped in lungs-full of unrestricted breath. His face felt crusted with days worth of tears and snot and grease. The air felt so good.

The grime made him wish fiercely for a shower, itching to get his body clean in more ways than being sprayed off with a hose like a piece of outdoor furniture would ever satisfy.

Dean took another breath and tentatively began to open his eyes. He was in a dark, warehouse-like space that was cloaked in shadows, which was probably a good thing for him right now.

In blurry, double vision he could make out a light across the way. A lamp beside a table and chairs over on the other side of the room was the only real source of light. Even the shadowy, colorless room was a joy to see after his seeming unending time in darkness.

As he squinted and blinked his eyes to help bring them back into focus, he felt Hands move around from to stand in front of him and block the meager light. He loomed tall and massive over Dean’s hunched figure.

Dean craned his neck, traveling up the long, lean expanse of his master’s body and tried to bring his tormentor’s face into focus. It seemed like an eternity he knelt there blinking as things slowly came into view.

Finally able to see his master clearly for the first time, his mind broke a little more. He began to wail as agony ripped through him. 

 

: : :

 

For several hours that afternoon his master had lazily fucked into him on the bed. He had started and stopped, changed speed and strength, never quite enough to come, just teasing and tormenting.

Initially, Dean was on a knife edge of arousal, but as it went on the prolonged thrusts became a dragging, rubbing pain. Dean thought his master was perfectly aware of the discomfort he now caused and knew that saying anything would only get him punished. He had begun to bite his lip only a little at first, but by now he was sure that he must have drawn blood.

Dizzy with pleasure pain, Dean wasn’t sure if it would ever end, if his master would ever finish, he started to pant heavily, cycling toward hysteria.

When ‘Fists’ entered the room it was the last straw for Dean and he started to cry.

Dean could hardly believe himself anymore. What kind of ‘princess’ was he turning into to be crying? Dean didn’t cry, sure he was a prisoner, hell, he was a fucking slave, but to just burst into tears?

Dean shook his head at his silent conversation with himself. Fists had hurt him brutally the night before and given him to four of his hunting buddies to use without care, cold eyes watching him as they raped him repeatedly. Dean didn’t think he could take anymore, especially not so soon after this. He hid his face in Hands’ collarbone, shivered and curled his bound hands up against his master’s shirt in a pathetic attempt to hide.

Hands roughly soothed him, petted his back as his master picked up the pace to finally finish, Dean prayed.

“Yea, something you want?” he asked Fists.

“Well we got a supply run to do and you know it always goes better with Murphy if we bring Dean along. We always get a better price for the ammo when he’s softened up with a little entertainment.”

“Hmmm,” Hands acknowledged thoughtfully, and lifted Dean’s chin so that he was forced to bring his tear stained eyes up to look directly into his master’s face.

“What do you say, Dean, you gonna be a good boy?”

Dean nodded his head slow and reluctant. He tried to look away from his master’s face.

Yes, he would be a good boy.

 

: : :

 

“No, master. Please, no, no don't do this, master,” Dean was nearly hysterical with fear as he was shoved back into the chair and bound in place.

“Hush, Dean, don’t make me beat you here in front of strangers. It’ll be even worse for you than what you already have coming,” Hands stated matter-of-factly. “You embarrass me any more, boy, and you’ll pay. You took the nipple rings okay, why the big fuss about this?”

Dean bit his lip so hard he felt blood as it trickled down the inside of his mouth. His chest ached where the gold barbell slugs had just been inserted. Dean hated them, hated that his body had any further marks of ownership on it than it already did, but this, this was more brutal, more permanent than a couple of rings or the bruises or bites or whip marks.

This was forever permanent.

Dean could hardly breathe with the thought and felt blackness flicker at the edges of his eyes.

The straps Hands and Fists pulled across him held him increasingly tighter. Even his head was held strapped down now to the dentist-like chair. His eyes rolled in his head in a desperate attempt to see what was going to happen.

Even with the very real threat of punishment, Dean couldn’t get his body under control, to cooperate, to be a good boy. He couldn’t do this, he just couldn’t…

“Now ya got to hold him still or this could get ugly, pal,” said the man. “If the brand doesn’t go in still and clean you get a blurry impression. Ya want ta plug his mouth before I start?”

“No,” Hands said as he and Fists reached out to hold down various still twitching parts of Dean’s body. “I want to hear him scream.”

 

: : :


	4. Stumbling Towards the Spires of Freedom

  


  


: : :

Dean slowly, awkwardly fell into a rhythm at the Auto body shop. Breakfast with Lawrence and Irene at their place across the yard, an overstuffed bag lunch, to fatten him up, handed to him by an unsubtle Irene on his way out to the shop. Then supper later in the day back at the Berry house and a quiet evening in his new place.

At first, Lawrence had hovered over him and directed like an old mother hen, but as the days went by and Dean continued to work, hesitant at first, then in growing confidence, he could feel Lawrence’s budding approval. Sensed Lawrence’s acceptance that maybe Dean knew a little something about what he was up to. Fortunately for his sanity, Lawrence was soon off to put out other fires in the yard, which suited Dean just fine and he only dropped in occasionally to chat or offer advice. Dean was left alone in blissful silence to work on the cars he loved.

 

: : :

 

Dean was gradually cycling through the boxes of Auto-body News that he’d rescued during the cleanup, actually gleaned a few useful bits of information from their dusty pages. Then he’d do research on the broken down relic of a laptop Lawrence had given him.

Lawrence had felt guilty leaving Dean out in the garage with no cable or TV, so he’d dug up an old laptop a client had given him in trade for some bodywork he’d done a few years back. The wireless just reached the old garage if Dean sat and worked on the end of the bed.

The software on it was so old and virus infested it had taken Dean a week just to debug it, but finally he had it up and running and could begin his research. He scoured the net for hours at a time as he tried to track down the bits and pieces of the information he needed. Dean pushed himself until he tumbled exhausted and red eyed into bed late in the night. Not that sleep actually came most nights, that wasn’t working for him yet, but it was the idea.

More often than not, he woke up mid scream in the late hours shaking with fear, heart rattling as the last bits and snatches of the dream whispered away like an iron struck ghost.

Rather than try to return to sleep, he’d turn the computer back on and dig into more research. The morning would come all too soon and he would crawl out of bed tired, achy and fragile with dark circles growing under his eyes.

He was more than a little bewildered. He didn’t understand how he could operate as a captive, a slave, put in a fucking cage for days on end for more than three years and survive just fine, but was falling apart now that he was free.

What did that say about him? Maybe his mind was broken?

He didn’t know for sure, he just knew he didn’t fit in his skin anymore. It was like the Dean of old hung on him like a loose suit. He felt like an imposter, bruised and open and unprotected.

Where was the cocky, brash, sonofabitch he’d used to be?

He didn’t know what it all meant or how to fix it so he buried himself in work and hoped somehow things would get better.

Hunting with his dad, there had never been much time for Dean to indulge his love of old cars. He had kept the Impala running through shear strength of will, and a healthy dose of scavenging in Bobby’s salvage yard. But to be here, in a fully stocked garage with the time, equipment and parts to do the job right – Dean couldn’t believe his luck.

He started with the Dodge Charger. First, he cleaned her engine to see what the problems might be, then slowly broke her down part by part in order to build her back up.

Dean loved the idea of fixing things. In his mind, he could see what was wrong and what it would take to make it right. It just took time and a whole boatload of patience, something he had in abundance, it seemed. 

His days were spent quietly moving about the garage tackling one trouble spot after another on his project. The weeks went by and the silence, and contemplative nature of the work, calmed Dean. He felt not only the car start to resemble its old shape, but some part of the old Dean reform as well.

The nightmares and flashbacks still left him shaken and biting back screams. He also couldn’t seem to help the drop of his head and the disappearance of his voice when he spoke with the other mechanics and was quick to retreat  to the relative safety of his own bays once he had the parts or equipment he’d needed. He was working on it though. He knew he had to do better, had to be more normal. It was just normal sucked ass and was really hard.

It was almost dinner time when Dean heard a noise behind him. He turned quickly, fingers clenching tightly in fear on the old wipe rag he had been cleaning his hands off with.

“Um, hey, Dean,” Anna, the Barry’s pretty receptionist, was standing near the open bay doors of the garage.

“Uhh…Ma’am.” Dean ducked his head, cursed himself slightly at the overly formal tone.

Jesus. If Dean was honest with himself he had admired her from a distance since, well, since he first got here. Friendly, beautiful and kind, she was just the type of girl Dean never met on the road. Classy was the word, not the cheap and easy good time girls Dean had normally hooked up with. Normally…

Dean tried to hide a wry grin. There was that word again.

Normally, he’d had nothing to do with a beautiful girl for a long, long time now. Normally, he’d be taking it up the ass from Hands and Fists and any and all of their fuck buddies. Normally, he yearned for a bit of lube rather than a dry fuck.

Yea, normally… funny the things that could become normal. But she, heck, she was so far from normal…

Dean felt a bit dirty and undeserving even thinking about her.

“Um… sorry to bother you, but Lawrence wanted me to tell you that supper tonight was going to be over at the garage. During the summer Irene’s at Bingo every other Friday. With Lawrence bacheloring it, me and the guys started staying late, it being Friday night and all, and now it’s a formal thing - Barry’s BBQ Night.” She shrugged. “So we’re cooking some burgers and dogs and I thought, I mean he thought, maybe you’d like to join us? We don’t get to see you much, stuck out here like you are. You should come round and socialize more.”

Anna tilted her head slightly looking at him.

“Uhhh, yeah, sure, okay. Dean stumbled out, “I just…. I’ve just got some things to finish up here, tidy up… be over in a bit.”

Dean had no intention of going over at all. He ran through his food inventory and thought he had some leftover chips and pretzels from Irene’s welcome basket of snacks and lunch overflow. That would make an okay supper.

He had a couple of new leads he wanted to look up tonight on the laptop.

He didn’t realize that Anna had walked over closer to him until he felt her hand under his chin as she gently lifted it up so he was looking her in the eyes. He jumped slightly but didn’t move away.

“You, you seem kinda lonely here, working away by yourself, Dean. There’s no reason why you can’t hang out with the other guys… And me.”

Gentle eyes gazed up into his, and he jerkily nodded yes, not enough to dislodge her hand, just to signal he heard.

“Maybe you should give us a chance and get to know us…you know we don’t bite,” Anna said. “Well, heck I can’t speak for the guys and especially not my brother, he might just bite, but I know I don’t.”

A sweet smile drifted over her face and Dean had to remember to close his mouth as he stared at her, mesmerized.

She smelled sweet and clean and innocent like a summer meadow. No heavy perfume or gaudy jewelry, just down home country earthy.

His eyes settled on her lips, the soft delicate curve of them, and he wondered what it would feel like to kiss them soft and gentle, not harsh or bruising. He found himself leaning in slightly without thinking, eyes wide, trapped by her serene expression of trust. Trust of a stranger who could beat or hurt or torture her without a care, without getting caught, take her away from everything she knew.

Who stayed alive with that much trust shining in their eyes? How did they stay safe? There were just too many creepy assed things in the world and how did she even know he wasn’t one of them?

He jerked his head back from her grasp, shaking it slightly as the cavalcade of horrible scenarios marched by.

Swallowing, Dean tried to haul himself together, and just nodded.

Anna dropped her hand from his chin reluctantly, a strange concerned look in her eyes. She shook her head and laughed a little, and said, “Besides, Lawrence actually springs for the burgers and dogs at the BBQs so we need help breaking the bank on that one.”

”Yea, umm, I’ll be there…” Dean lied.

 

: : :

 

Dean closed up the garage for the night, intent on his original plan to hide out for the evening and continue his work. He headed back to the safety of his apartment, but found himself strangely restless. He paced back and forth and couldn’t seem to settle.

The smell of burgers floated through the evening air into his apartment. He told himself it was only the food he wanted, not the company, as he washed his hands and face for the third time and donned his new black t-shirt that Ted had bought him, which fit nicely across his chest.

He didn’t have anything other than his two pair of work jeans and the ones he had on were the nicest so they’d have to do. He promised himself that he’d only stay a minute. No pressure.

He felt like some kind of creepy stalker lurking in the shadows, but as soon as he got close to the garage, he became unaccountably shy. Lawrence and the four mechanics Joe, Chris and José and the new guy, Mike, Dean thought he remembered his name, and Anna, were all sitting around a fire-pit at the back of the garage as they drank beer and chatted. Some old plastic tiki-style lamps were strung around the back yard and gave a friendly glow to the festivities. Lawrence was wearing a novelty apron that said ‘I’ve got a big Chopper’, clearly the work of Irene for Christmas or a birthday. As he stood in the shadows, José and Chris both pulled out well worn guitars and started to strum.

Dean’s fingers twitched as José started to sing. It had been years since Dean had touched a guitar. Music had been a particular passion of Dean’s and he had taught himself to play when he was 15.

He hadn’t played, well since he had been taken. Music had been removed from his life completely at that point. He hadn’t let himself think about it or even want. Wanting what he couldn’t have just hurt too much so he shut it down, like he had done to a lot of things. But hearing José start to sing some soft Spanish folk song, Dean could feel his throat tighten in longing.

He had just turned to leave when he heard Lawrence’s voice boom out across the darkness.

“Dean, that you, son? Come on over.”

Damn, the man must have cat’s eyes.

Dean sighed, caught, and reluctantly moved out of the sheltering shadows towards Lawrence.

“Hey there, glad you could make it. I think you know everyone here? Joe, Chris and Jose and, of course, our lovely Anna. I don’t know, have you met Mike yet?”

Dean shook his head, no.

“Come on over, Mike, and meet Dean, he’s fixing up my two babies in the old garage. Doin’ a damn fine job of it too. You should go over and check out his work some time.”

Mike stood and advanced over to Dean. Tall and lanky with dark black hair, Mike was an inch or two taller than Dean and as he grasped Dean’s hand to shake it, there was something about the guy that gave Dean the heebie jeebies. A sort of cruel menace seemed to hang off him, and Dean couldn’t wait to have his hand back. He wanted to wipe it on his jeans, the feeling was so strong.

Mike gave Dean an assessing look as his eyes traveled far too familiarly up and down Dean’s body before saying, “So he’s good at body work is he? I’ll have to go check it out for myself, maybe get some pointers.” He sauntered back over to the fire.

Dean shivered and vowed to stay far away from Mike.

The evening progressed far better than Dean would ever have imagined. He nursed a beer and one of Lawrence’s BBQ sauce soaked burgers, and moved over to where Chris and Jose were jamming. He just watched silently appreciating Chris’s skill in particular. The man knew his way around a guitar.

During a break, Chris turned to him and said, “So wanna give her a try?”

“Nah… just listenin’,” Dean replied as he took a pull on his beer to hide his want.

“Hey, dude, you might be able to fool some people, but I can see you eyeing my fretwork and I bet a dollar to a donut you know your way around a guitar. Come on. Give her a try.”

“Ahh… it’s been a long time, man. Long time since I played.”

Dean swallowed nervously, but stepped closer in spite of himself, yearning to touch the guitar and make something beautify come from her.

“Hey, have a seat here, man, I gotta jet anyway,” Jose volunteered. “The wife’s gonna kill me if I don’t get home soon. She’s been alone with three little ones’ all day and I’m sure she’s ready to go ballistic.” He held out his guitar to Dean. “Take mine, you can just put her in the case and stash her in the back room after. I leave her here for when I get a chance to play during breaks anyway. Wife doesn’t want any more noise at home than we already got.” He grinned. “No reason why you couldn’t be playing her.”

Dean grateful, reverently, took the guitar and moved to sit, putting his half empty been down beside him.

Chris looked at him appraisingly and said, “ _Smoke on the Water_?” and he and Dean launched into the first bars of the song.

He was a bit rusty at first and his fingers seemed to play stupid for a while, but then in no time it started to come back to him and Dean was lost in the music. He followed Chris’s lead as they worked their way through CCWR classics and even some new Jason Manns stuff Dean had heard on the radio.

It was Dean’s fingers that finally gave out, tender and sore from the strings. When he finally called uncle and looked up from the guitar he was surprised to find everyone in their group had pulled their chairs up and huddled round the impromptu jam session.

Chris clapped his back in approval and said, “You know, man, with just a little practice you could be really good. Keep the guitar for the weekend, Jose won’t mind. Maybe we can get you hooked up with one of your own. But you got skills, boy.”

Dean looked at Chris like he had just offered him priceless jewels and carefully put the guitar back in its case.

Anna approached clapping softly. “Wow, who knew we had another great guitarist in the ranks? Do you sing too?”

Dean laughed gruffly and rubbed the back of his neck, “Na, not in a long time.”

“Well, you’ll have to give me a private session and audition that voice. If it’s half as good as your playing, we’re in for a real treat on BBQ nights and especially someone to give Chris a run for his money. Something to keep him in line.”

Anna winked at Dean with that last statement and reached out and gently pushed back a lock of hair that had slid into Dean’s eyes. Her fingers lingered after.

Dean’s breath caught in his chest and, unbidden, he raised his hand up and caught her wrist in his. He just stared at it for a moment. His hand completely engulfed her tinier one. He shivered slightly and rubbed his thumb along her pulse point.

“Yea, maybe,” Dean offered softly.

Just then Chris, who had packed up his guitar and loaded it in his truck, called over and said, “Anna, you still want that ride home sis, or are you staying the night?”

He winked mischievously at Dean, and Anna blushed furiously. Dean rocked back a bit in surprise.

She danced out of Deans grasp and said shyly, “Well, not on our first date anyway. Night, Dean.”

That night, for the first time, Dean didn’t wake up screaming. He dreamed of soft lips and scarlet hair and fresh country breezes.

 

: : :

 

The weekend dragged on for Dean. He continued to work on the old Dodge, and she was getting into shape, and research at night till his eyes bled.

Dean still felt an unaccountable restlessness. He finally realized it was because he couldn’t wait till Monday came around, couldn’t wait to see Anna again.

When Monday finally arrived, Dean panicked when he discovered he couldn’t come up with a good excuse to go and see Anna. He had all the spare parts he needed for now, and any other tools were just a matter of talking with Chris or one of the other mechanics.

He had nothing, his imagination had deserted him. He spent the morning trying to think of a plausible reason to visit and only came up with one hare brained scheme after the other. 

_And to think I used to sweet talk my way into anything. God! I used to  carry off impersonating an FBI why am such an asshat over this?_

He had finally decided to just walk over and see what might happen, when he felt someone enter the garage. He turned, hoping it was Anna, but hid a shiver of distaste when he saw it was Mike, the new mechanic.

The man entered the garage and again had that crafty, calculating look on his face like he was sizing Dean up for something. Something Dean thought he instinctively wouldn’t like.

“Hey,” Mike said, and Dean nodded. “Just thought I’d come over and scope out your work. Some nice digs here. Old man Laury must really like you.”

Mike’s hand trailed along the Dodges newly filled and sanded side panels. Dean had the urge to go and rub the fingerprints away where Mike had touched her.

“Cherry, man, some nice work. You going to do the paint work yourself?”

Dean nodded again, and wished the man would hurry up and leave already. He just needed to figure out what to say.

As Dean struggled to find words, Mike continued to trail his hands along the side of the car. As he neared Dean, standing near the front lights, the fingers continued their exploration up Dean’s side and across his chest.

Dean’s breath hitched and his eyes went wide.

“Don’t say much do you, man?” Mike asked casually, gruffly.

Robbed of his voice Dean could only continue to nod.

“Well, that’s okay. Maybe that’s the way I like em.”

Mike ventured as he rubbed his hands over Dean’s pierced nipples and suddenly grabbed Dean’s shirt collar and pulled him close for a kiss.

The kiss took Dean completely off guard on a number of levels – it’s suddenness, it’s harshness, and the total feel of domination that came with it. It was not the sneaked kiss of a lover, it was a cruel, hurtful, punishing kiss Dean was far too familiar with.

He surprised himself by jerking back and away as he looked at Mike in shock. Mike though, never lost his grip on Dean’s shirt and with a vicious push the larger man propelled Dean back and up against the garage wall.

Dean grunted in surprise as Mike slammed him into the wall. Dean’s struggle to escape was met by a further slam back into the wall that took Dean’s breath. An arm across his windpipe cut off his air.

Dean tried to push the man’s arms and body off him, but Mike’s hold on him was like iron. He was just that much bigger and heavier than Dean and he used it to his advantage.

His large arm on Dean’s throat had Dean seeing black in the corners of his eyes. He kept him pinned until he felt Dean’s knees buckle as he started to lose consciousness. Mike let him slide to his knees on the floor before him. His grip transferred to his shoulder and Dean’s hair.

Shaking Dean’s head, he said, “Hey, come one back, Green Eyes, you’ve got some work to do now.”

Dean blurrily tried to rise off his knees as he coughed and choked and tried to catch his breath, but Mike shoved him down again and slammed his head against the stuccoed wall.

“So here’s how it’s gonna work between us, Sunshine. I’m new here and I’m feelin’ a bit lonely, if you know what I mean. So I‘m gonna visit you every once in a while, maybe even overnight and you’re gonna be my good bitch. My good boy. Right? You’re gonna keep quiet and do what I say or I’m gonna have to hurt you.”

“I know you’re over here alone most of the time. Would be real easy to come here and fuck you up, cut you. Leave you for dead, yeah?”

Mike twirled a jackknife slowly in front of Dean’s dazed eyes.

He paused to let his words soak in then continued thoughtfully, “You look good on your knees, Dean. Like you belong there. And I’ll have you there a lot from now on. Good little bitch like you, you’re gonna do whatever I say from now on. Right?”

With his hand in Dean’s hair, he hauled Dean’s head up till Dean’s neck was arched painfully and he was forced to look up at Mike’s face. He shook Dean’s head brutally.

Tears crept into the corner of Dean’s eyes and all he could do was nod as Mike slowly slide the knife along Dean’s throat. It’s what he was after all, a good boy.

“So open up like a good boy and we’ll take those pretty cocksucker lips of yours for a ride.”

 

: : :

 

Dean felt like he had been thrust back into hell as Mike shoved his dick in Dean’s face.

“Come on, bitch, suck it up.”

It was the third time Mike had ‘visited’ Dean. He pushed Dean roughly to the garage floor and without preamble stuffed his cock down Dean’s throat.

“You do time, bitch?” Mike asked conversationally as Dean tried to keep up with the rough thrusts into his face. “You suck cock like a fucking champion, man.”

Mike roughly patted Dean’s head and gripped the too-long hair tightly to control the brutal pace.

Dean didn’t try to reply. His mouth was full of dick after all; it wasn’t a time to start discussing Shakespeare. _AssHat,_ he thought. He made a mental note to cut his hair. He was damn sick and tired of it being used to pin him down and control him.

As Mike fucked into his face, Dean’s mind retreated to a safe distance. Absently, he realized he didn’t know what to do here, not the fuck, but the whole situation. He knew the old Dean would have taken this fucker down, bigger than him or not, but this new…weak Dean just...took it.  Some part of him felt like he deserved this. Mike had simply moved into the place of his masters and he couldn’t find it in himself to disobey.

So far, Mike had been happy with hand jobs or blow jobs, but Dean knew a full on fuck was coming. Mike was just trying to see how far he could push Dean before he pushed back, and Dean was worried there would never be a too far. Dean would just keep taking and taking…like a good boy. He shuddered, perfectly timed with Mike’s spend down his throat.

Mike shoved him down as he pulled out of Dean’s mouth, and Dean slumped to the floor, eyes on the ground, unable to force himself to look at Mike. Mike crouched down and ran his hand possessively across Dean’s chest and tweaked his nipple, turning the barbell piercing cruelly in his fingers.

“Yea, you’re my good little bitch. Gotta go, sweetheart, got work to do, but you know I’ll be back.”

He blew Dean a kiss as he sauntered away.

Dean lay there numb on the cement floor, trembling, and when he was finally able to lurch to his feet he made a mad dash to the bathroom just in time to empty his guts in the toilet. Shakily, he reached up after and flushed. Then he hauled himself up to sit heavily, to try and collect himself.

When he was finally able to stand, he turned to look at himself in the flaky bathroom mirror. He was surprised he didn’t see a monster there. Instead, it was the same face, same wide set, dark green eyes. Same ginger brown stubble. There should be more of a sign, something that said ‘Gutless Whore Raped Daily,’ some physical evidence of what had just happened.

Dean felt so out of control. It was worse in a way now because at the end of the fuck he wasn’t forced into a cage or left chained to a bed, no, he was expected to act normally and go about his business. At least the chains and bars and collar were more honest. With them, he knew what he was, ; there were no illusions and no hope. This casual drop-in rape was more invasive because freedom was there, but it wasn’t.

Dean grabbed at his shoulder length hair and decided there was at least one thing he could control.

He snatched up a pair of scissors.

He had just cut off a huge handful when he heard a soft voice. “Dean, you in there? You’re not naked are you?” and Anna’s laugh.

Dean quickly scrubbed his face of any sign of tears and braced himself for Anna’s appearance.

She rounded the corner and saw him, scissors in hand. “Oh my god, you are not cutting your hair are you?”

Dean nodded, perplexed. That was the last thing in the world he expected her to say.

“Oh, Dean, you’ve got beautiful hair, prettier than mine. Why cut it?”

“Ahhh… gets, gets in my eyes when I’m working,” he said minimally.

“But why not go to a barber then?”

“Don’t really have the cash,” he replied gruffly. He cast his eyes down, ashamed.

And he didn’t. His stay at Lawrence’s was a contra deal only so far. Dean had food and room and board, and god he was grateful for it, but he had no money to speak of. Ted had bought him everything he had, from his boots to his three pairs of boxers, and he was pitifully pleased with all of it. He didn’t know where he’d have ended up otherwise.

“Well, then I’m cutting it for you; you’re not butchering that beautiful head trying to cut and look in a mirror. I’ll do it. I used to cut my brother’s hair. Lots of times. Come here, sit here where the light is good.”

Good as her word, Anna proceeded to take him in hand. The soft snip of the scissors clipping here and there as she crouched and bobbed and wove around his body reminded him of the times Sammy would cut his hair in whatever hotel room they were staying at. Dean had liked his hair military short. Sam would hunch down and circle Dean relentlessly, tongue stuck out his mouth in concentration until every hair was cut just so. Yea, Sammy was a determined fucker…

Dean caught himself and froze, eyes clamped shut in sudden pain as he tried to lock his mind down.

_Don’t go there, don’t go there, don’t think about it…. Nooooooo_

“Dean, Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean breathed out a raspy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and looked at Anna’s hand on his shoulder trying to comfort him.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

Dean tried to gain control over his jack-rabbiting heart and managed to whisper out, “Nah, not you, just a bad memory…yo-you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You scared me there. Hey, I’m almost done, just a few little pieces sticking out on the side. I hope you like it; you said you wanted it short,” she warned.

A few snips later, and Dean was brushing off his T-shirt and heading toward the mirror. Anna was so close on his heels she could have tripped over him if he’d stopped.

“So do you like it?” she asked anxiously.

Dean looked in the mirror and twisted around to try and see the back. It was perfect. Military short, but just a bit extra on top to not make him look like a dweeb. It was the perfect haircut, and unlike some of Sammy’s, it didn’t need a few days to grow out in order to look good.

Looking at himself in the mirror was like looking at the old Dean - the Dean he could be again with a bit of work, maybe. Hell, who was he kidding? A lot more work.

He turned around to thank Anna, but they were so close in the small bathroom that as he turned, he bumped against her. Suddenly, Dean was kissing her. It was a sweet, gentle kiss. His lips dusted down over hers, and he rubbed his tongue over her bottom lip to savor its softness. Anna’s mouth opened, and Dean took the impromptu invitation to move in, nice and slow as he circled and stroked and explored her softness with his tongue.

After her initial surprise, Anna kissed back, her tongue tentative at first, barely touching his plush lips and then, in growing confidence, darting inside to taste. They broke apart after a while like swimmers coming up from below, breaking the surface to look at each other in awed wonder.

“Well, if I had known I’d get that reaction, I’d have offered to cut your hair sooner,” she said.

Dean ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, shyly grinned and then forced himself to look back up into her eyes. “Yea.”

 

: : :

 

Over the next few weeks, Anna found more and more reasons to drop by and visit with Dean. First to check on his new haircut, then to see about supplies, and then one afternoon she brought lunch.

“So, Dean, I know you usually brown bag it, and God knows Irene’s cooking is pretty darn good, but I was thinking we could do something special today.”

Dean looked up from the newly painted Dodge, its coat of sparkling, cobalt blue paint glittering in the afternoon sunshine. She was almost finished. All she needed were a few more bits and pieces of upholstery, yet to come in, and some chrome replacement parts added, and she’d be good to go.

She’d been a labor of love for Dean, and he kind of hated to see the project complete, but it was satisfying to see her running smooth as silk, engine purring and ready to hit the road, and he still had the Firebird to work on. Lawrence was thrilled with his work, and life, well, with the exception of Mike, life was damn near perfect.

He and Anna’s brother had jammed again a couple of times since the BBQ, and the man was just infinitely funny. Chris was coming over again tonight for a session, and Dean’s fingers twitched in anticipation, but right now all he had eyes for was beautiful Anna. He didn’t know what she saw in him, the too-quiet man with too many secrets, but he’d take it.

He thought it was interesting the parallels in their lives. Growing up it had been just him and Sam with their dad gone so often on hunts, and after the death of her parents in a car crash it had been just Anna and Chris. They’d knocked around from home to home till Chris had turned 18 and took custody of Anna. No regular address or the same school till then, just like Sammy and him. Chris had started work at Barry’s garage out of necessity to put food on the table at eighteen, and Dean could understand that, respect it. He wondered what it would have been like if he and Sam had settled down somewhere, a real home, no need to move from place to place.

Dean had to be honest with himself, though, the lure of hunting had been huge; he felt…satisfied saving people, hunting things. He did good, or had done. If things had turned out differently he could have seen doing that job just as long as he was able, but he wasn’t that man anymore. He wasn’t sure he could do that again.

Dean’s mood turned somber as he shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his skin and absently swiped the sweat from his brow. The garage was stuffy and over-hot, even on this fall day, with no breeze in the air. He could still do some good in his own way. Like the house Anna and Chris had just bought together. It was older, a bit run down, but it would be theirs in a few weeks, and Dean had offered to do some of the fix up work on it with Chris. It was something he knew how to do, something he could make right, better. With Anna secure and happy she could start planning for a real future, maybe some part time classes… Dean’s mind hummed at the possibilities. Maybe he could…

“Dean, you with me? You seem a thousand miles away.”

“Ah, man, sorry, just thinking about how you’ll work me like a borrowed mule the minute you take possession of the house,” Dean chuckled as Anna stuck her tongue out at him.

“So yea, lunch…what did you have in mind? I think I’d better fuel up; I’ll need my strength for all this work I know you’ve got planned for me.”

Anna stood delicately on tiptoe and kissed him pertly on the mouth. Dean’s breath hitched with tenderness, and a smile danced on his lips as he stared at the beautiful face, caught like a fly in amber.

“Ha! You poor, downtrodden baby. Welllll, my evil renovation plans aside; , for lunch I was thinking it was time we went on a picnic. I’m not that busy this afternoon, and you put in tons of extra hours, so Lawrence won’t say anything about you playing hookey, soooo I kinda thought we could hang out and have a lazy lunch. And yes, I brought the food, though you don’t really eat enough for my way of thinking.” She shoved the overfull basket in her hands at him, grabbed up the plaid blanket she had set down on the hood of the car, then said, “Follow me.”

Grinning a little, eyes crinkled, Dean meekly followed Anna out of the garage, admiring the view as he trailed along behind her. Sometimes surrender had its advantages, he mused.

She took him to a sunny patch at the back of the lot, a big oak casting dappled shadows on the ground, and they began to set up.

Anna shook out the blanket, and they both started to empty out the basket in companionable silence.

Lunch was a simple affair - taco fixings, soft drinks, and, best of all, pie. Dean didn’t know if he had ever mentioned his susceptibility to it. It was probably just a coincidence, but there it was, flaky, tender, just ready for eating, apple pie. Dean’s favorite, and his mouth watered in anticipation. It had been years since he’d had a slice.

“So, Dean, I wanted to ask you… Is there anyone special in your life?” Anna took a big bite of taco to cover her nervousness.

Dean looked up briefly then let his head hang down. “Nah, not really; it’s…it’s been a while.”

“What about family? You never talk about them.”

“Nope, no family to speak of; it’s really just me.”

“How did you meet Ted and Lawrence? Through work?”

“No, I’m not even from California, more the Midwest, but I was travelling rough on the road, and Ted, well, Ted just kinda took me under his wing.” Dean rubbed his neck; he hated the lie but hated the truth worse. “So what you see is kinda what you get.”

“Oh, that’s okay with me; I just kinda wondered. You… you seemed kind of hurt when you arrived here, but I think you’re doing better now, right?”

“Yea, I’m doing better,” Dean agreed and found himself leaning toward Anna. “I’m doing much better.”

Their lips met, and a blaze of warmth mixed with protectiveness and tenderness flooded through Dean. Anna leaned into the kiss, and their breathing become more erratic as Dean’s hand slipped up to hold Anna’s head. His other hand slid round to gently cup her breast.

His eyes fluttered closed as the kiss deepened, and he felt true need tugging at him as it hadn’t for years. He opened his eyes and saw an answering hunger in Anna’s face. They both lay down on the blanket and began to quickly undress each other in a quiet desperation.

All that was going through Dean’s mind as his hand glided over her satin smooth skin was: _so much better than pie_. 

 

: : :

 

Dean felt like he was split in two. On one hand, his times with Anna were some of the best of his life. On the other hand, Mike’s continued visits sent him cringing into the corners of his mind in fear and self-loathing, his presence a warped and ugly echo of everything Dean had been.

“Fuck yea, so good, Dean, oh, oh, yea...” Mike whispered hoarsely as he fucked into Dean.

Arms held Dean down too tight, enough to bruise. Mike thrust in mindlessly. His chest rubbed tight against Dean’s, Dean’s legs bent double and squished between them, heels over Mike’s shoulders, Dean’s cock neglected and uninterested between them.

Dean turned his head and looked away from Mike’s distant, lust filled eyes. His hands were bound above his head to the headboard. It was the latest of Mike’s new humiliations, to tie him to something.

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed as he blushed in embarrassment. So this is what being a whore was like. He’d gone from slave to whore, because he couldn’t say no. Wasn’t that part of being free?

Dean couldn’t think that he was any better than any hooker in a back alley right now. The reality was that the words “no” and “stop” just froze on his tongue. Some now twisted part of him felt that this was the thing he was good for now, and that part of him had cringed and submitted to the first dickwad to come his way.

Dean shuddered at his thoughts as Mike hammered away, then sped up, jerked erratically, and finally bellowed his release and slumped down on Dean, panting. Dean rolled over as far as the rope would allow out from under Mike’s loose hold and curled his body up protectively around itself. Mikes’ limp dick plopped slightly as it pulled away from Dean’s hole. Mike lay there panting for a while and then finally rolled onto his back and lit up a cigarette, his arm slung negligently over Dean’s hip. His fingers absently traced Dean’s brand, then reached up and loosened Dean’s bound hands.

“So how’d ya get this?” Mike exhaled a thin stream of smoke and caressed the pentacle shaped brand on Dean’s hip. “Didn’t take you for that kinky a son of a bitch, Dean.” His hand snaked up to flick at one of Dean’s nipple rings.

Silent, Dean ignored the question and started to rise, to go to the shower, but Mike’s hand snapped out and yanked him back down on the bed.

“You don’t move, bitch, till I say you can; you’re mine now,” he said as he exhaled his cigarette again.

Chipper now that he’d gotten off, Mike sat up and slapped Dean’s bare ass. “Yea, baby, got some plans for your sweet cheeks. You’re my ticket outta here. Gonna introduce you to some of my friends this weekend, gonna get that sweet ass of yours working for me. Then I’ll quit this dead end job and make some real money.”

Mike chuckled at his brilliant plan, and Dean curled further into himself in horror.

“So don’t you make no plans with that skirt of yours. Your ass is gonna be otherwise occupied.” Mike stood up taking another deep drag of his cigarette, then flicked it disdainfully at Dean.

Dean jerked as the hot coal hit his flesh and bounced away but didn’t rise to Mike’s taunts as he continued, “But ya know, maybe I’ve been too hasty, maybe your sweet thing is a sweet ride too…hmm? Could double my pleasure and double my fun, hey? Once we get you settled in, let’s think about arranging to have your girlfriend come with. Have her out on a date, then we’ll try out the fit.” 

Mike laughed again, and Dean gritted his teeth, his hands curled into fists as rage exploded through his body, but he still couldn’t move.

“And you know what you’re going to do, Dean-o?” Mike sing-song taunted. “Nothin’, cause you’re a gutless wonder, my boy, and you can’t wait to take it up the ass from your big daddy, Mike. Yea, Mike’ll look after ya.” Mike ruffled Dean’s hair and pulled on his jeans. “And I’m bettin’ your little girlfriend, well, she could work out just fine too.”

Mike whistled as he sauntered out of Dean’s room and headed back to work.

Dean curled himself tighter on the bed, huddled in self-loathing. Finally, after a long while, worried that Lawrence might drop by and find him like that, he got shakily to his feet and staggered to the shower. Fear battled with disgust as he scrubbed his body raw under the hot water.

Mike wanted to… Mike was gonna… Anna!

Dean’s stomach heaved, and he found himself clutching the porcelain rim of the toilet once more. He didn’t understand how he’d just laid there and taken it. He should have popped the son of a bitch. And he had threatened Anna…

Dean shivered. He couldn’t let that happen, dammit. It was time to end this. Time to stand up for himself. If he couldn’t do it for himself he had to do it for Anna. He couldn’t let anything like what had happened to him happen to her.

 

: : :

 

Chris came over that night to jam, but instead of enjoying the session all Dean could think about was Mike and Anna, which left him distracted and agitated. Finally, Chris just gave up and put down his guitar.

He thrust a beer in Dean’s hand and said, “Okay, so what’s up? You’re worried about something. Spill!”

Dean chewed his lip and glanced furtively up at Chris sitting across from him.

“I know something’s bothering you, man, so just tell me. It can’t be all that bad.”

“Can you get me a gun, Chris?” Dean asked quietly.

“Shit, Dean… a gun, really? Yea, I got friends in low places,” Chris answered, eyebrow arched in question. “But you know a gun brings its own type of trouble. Is this something your fists could solve? I could show you a move or two,” Chris offered.

Dean looked away; the butterfly knife that Mike had thrust into Dean’s face loomed large in his memory.

“No, man, I-I appreciate it, but I don’t think a fight is gonna cut it.”

“How much trouble can you get into out here, dude? You don’t talk to anyone and never go anywhere, you live like a monk - no TV, no beers unless brought to you by a wonderful and kind hearted and amazingly good looking friend.” Chris smirked.

“The only people I ever see you with are Lawrence and Ted and my sister, and I know she’s not causing you grief. I’ve seen that creep Mike slinking around but… Hey, is Mike giving you trouble? We can fire that little creep if he’s bothering you, Dean. Hell, he’s still on probation, so just give me the word, and we can have his ass busted back to jail, man. What- what did he say? Did he threaten you?”

Dean felt like he might fold like a cheap suit. Chris was just soooo Chris. Strong, unwavering, unafraid. Dean almost felt brave again when he was with him.

“I-it’s nothing, man, forget about it. I-I’ll figure it out. Forget I said anything.”

Chris shook his head wearily and said, “Dean, man, I know something’s wrong, that you’ve been through some tough times. But don’t put up with any shit, man. If you need a gun I’ll get you one, but I just want you to know I’m here for you.”

Chris left shortly after, and Dean lay on his bed. He stared blankly at the ceiling and thought about how best to deal with the Mikes of this world. He had to sooner rather than later.

 

: : :

 

The next day, he didn’t see Mike all day, though Anna dropped by with a couple of pieces of their overlooked pie from the picnic. It was as good as Dean remembered, and the lingering, apple flavored kiss they shared when Anna left wasn’t bad either. Dean worried that Chris might have said something to Mike but decided he couldn’t do anything about it; he just had to be ready.

Dean had gotten back from supper at Lawrence and Irene’s around nine that night. The night was cool, and the stars were out in full in the cloudless evening sky. Dean had just entered the garage bay when it happened.

“Sic your dog on me, will ya?”

Mike’s hate filled voice suddenly growled in Dean’s ear, and he felt himself grabbed from behind and the jack knife snag up under his Adam’s apple. Dean froze and tried to brace his arm against Mike’s knife wielding one.

“Think you’ll get me in trouble with my probation officer, will you? Well, I’ll teach you; nobody fucks with Mike. You don’t open your mouth until I tell you to, bitch.”

Mike ran the blade deliberately down Dean’s neck, cutting a thin line into his flesh. Dean froze as the knife skirted his carotid, not breathing.

Unsatisfied with this game, Mike spun Dean and slammed him up against the wall and quickly pocketed the blade. He started punching Dean in the gut, and Dean thought at least one of his fists might be wearing brass knuckles.

Dean felt a long absent roar of defiance light through him as his rage and fear for Anna broke through his acquiescence. Adrenaline fueled anger had him suddenly shoving Mike back and taking a swing at his head. They grappled, trading blows; Dean kicked and used hunter moves he hadn’t used in years, a feral grin on his face, his heart pounding in his ears as he took his stand. He did well for a while, but Mike’s street tactics slowly trumped his rusty technique, and as Mike landed a punch across his temple with the brass knuckles, Dean’s world tilted crazily, and he felt himself smash up against the unforgiving wall of the garage.

Rock hard blows rained down on him, and Dean thought he felt a rib crack. Dizzy, he tried to raise his arms to defend himself, or at least deflect some of the jabs, but they kept getting knocked back. A smash to his jaw had him seeing white. Punches kept coming, now to both his face and torso, and Dean felt himself begin to lose consciousness and start to slide to the ground.

Dimly he heard Mike gasp, and Dean opened his eyes in time to see the man stiffen. The blows finally stopped. As Dean fell heavily to his knees he saw the sharp point of a blade suddenly project out of Mike’s stomach. Red bloomed across the front of his shirt.

Dean watched in stunned silence as Mike crumpled to the ground, his body barely twitching, impaled on a long-bladed knife. Dean looked up from where he listed wearily on the floor and saw a figure looming above Mike in the darkness.

“Chris?” Dean whispered into the pained silence.

“Guess again sweetheart,” Fists’ gravely tones glided out of the darkness.

 

: : :


	5. Stumbling Towards the Spires of Freedom

 

: : :

Dean felt his world tip and shred beneath him.

“N-nooo, noooo.” Dean shuddered. “Nooooooo…How did you find me?”

“We were kind of disappointed actually; we thought we had beaten the hunter out of you, boy, but it seems you still had enough in you to pose a little bit of a problem for us tracking you. Almost makes me proud, but we finally found this old trucker, loyal bastard, took quite a bit of persuading to have him see things right. He led us right here to you. You didn’t think you’d actually escape did you, Dean?” Fists mused as he tipped Mike’s body over and yanked out the blade, calmly cleaning it on the dead man’s T-shirt before putting it back in the sheath strapped to his leg.

“T-Tedd? I-is he alive?” Dean breathed.

“He’s alive, barely, tough old coot, didn’t know he had a heart condition. Left him outside the emergency at Reno once he’d told us what we wanted. Just couldn’t have him keeping me from what is mine now could I, Dean?”

Dean shook his head and looked down at the ground, not knowing if he was agreeing or disagreeing, his mind in shock.

“You look good there, Dean, on your knees. It’s where you belong, where you should be. And if you ever run from us again, from me, we now know a whole group of people who can pay for your disobedience.”

“Nooo, n-noo, this is all on me. Don’t, d-don’t hurt them. Please, please don't hurt them.” Fists looked at him hard, and Dean looked down and swallowed his shredded pride and reluctantly added in a whisper, “Please, master….”

The word was bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t matter here. His dignity was long gone; he had to protect his friends, deflect Fists’ rage any way he could think of. He would worry about himself later, if there was a later.

“They don't even know who I am, what I am, I..t-they aren’t involved. Please, master, please,” Dean continued to plead, his voice threaded with rising hysteria.

“But they are, Dean; anyone who helps my property escape needs to be punished, including you. I’ve been keeping an eye on you here, you and your little former fuck buddy. I considered taking him on, training him up, but really, he couldn’t handle you as well as I can. It was nice to see someone keeping you in your place. Then there’s all those others, the old man and his wife, and that girl. Maybe we should let her see just who you are before we go,” Fists spat out.

“Nooo, p-please, n-no, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt them,” Dean sobbed outright.

His body ached in pain, and he bowed forward, head to the ground as agony and fear spiraled through him, as the guilt and the sick horror he had visited down upon his friends sank in.

“As we said a long time ago, Dean, that’s not for you to decide anymore. You’re not in charge; you’re just our bitch. Stand up, our ride’s outside and we got a job to get to. Well, I do, you got a nice warm cage waiting out back in the truck.”

Fists grabbed Dean’s arm and hauled him to his feet, shoving his chest up against the wall. Dean leaned there, barely able to stand on shaking legs.

“Strip,” Fists ordered.

Dean froze briefly, then fumbled with his ripped and bloody t-shirt. Slowly, he pulled it up over his aching ribs, at least a couple of them cracked by Mike’s beating.

Trembling, he dropped the shirt on the ground but couldn’t bring himself to keep going until Fists’ dark rumble, “The pants too, now!... I won’t tell you again, boy.”

Dean carefully peeled the pants down and held his breath as he reached for his boxers. As he stepped out of the last of his clothes, he felt his head hang down of its own accord, naked and ashamed.

Fists loomed behind him. A large hand came down on Dean’s shoulder in the darkness; Dean jumped a little and stilled.

“Did you miss me, Dean? Miss knowing what you were going to be doing each and every minute of the day? What was expected of you? I saw you here, lost, not knowing what to do next, no one to look after you, protect you,” Fists whispered seductively in his ear. “No one but that pretender to show you whose you were.” Fists hand rubbed absently over Dean’s brand.

Fists pulled Dean’s hands behind his back and carefully buckled on leather wrist straps. Dean shuddered at the feeling. Fists clipped Dean’s wrists together and turned him around, pushing him up against the wall, his hand around Dean’s throat.

“So where’s your collar, Dean? You weren’t ever supposed to touch it, now were you?”

“No, sir,” Dean whispered brokenly, gulping frantically as the hand tightened around his throat.

“Well, we’ll have to add that to your bill, boy. And we’ll have to replace it but not with a leather one, not until you’ve earned the right again. For now, we’ll treat you like the dog you are,” Fists pronounced as he snapped a metal choke chain around Dean’s neck.

Dean sputtered in shock as Fists pulled him forward by the chain leash. The stark reality of what lay in store for him jolted Dean out of his passive submission, and he began to struggle.

He kicked out at Fists’ knee, trying to smash it sideways. His bare foot slipped slightly on the denim and the blow didn’t land with full force, but Dean was in motion. He jerked his neck to try and loosen Fists’ hold on him and fell back on his ass, leash suddenly free. He had just scrambled to his feet to run when Fists flung himself on top of Dean and smashed him to the ground as he struggled.

The heavier man grabbed his leash and yanked till Dean couldn’t breath. Dean continued to buck and tried to shove Fists off him, but the combined weight of the man and lack of air soon had him lying limp on the ground. Fists slowly loosened the choke chain so Dean could drag in a raspy breath. He panted in the darkness, the burst of rebellion squashed out of him.

Fists laughed full on and said, “Seems like you’ve forgotten your place in the world, Dean. Now are you going to be a good boy, or do I have to beat you right here?” Dean trembled where he lay on the cement. He turned his head away from Fists in shame as he shook his head.

“Out loud, Dean.”

“I’ll be a good boy,” Dean ground out.

“Come, boy.” Fists stood and yanked on the choke collar again.

Dean had to scramble to rise and keep from being strangled again. Fists lead him through the garage toward the outer door. As they passed the blue Charger, Fists paused and eyed Dean appraisingly.

“You do this? You restore her, son?”

Dean nodded mutely and looked away.

“Pretty sweet job, bet you’re pretty proud of her?” Fists asked. Dean couldn’t look up, head bowed until Fists grabbed his chin and forced his eyes to meet his. Fists’ thumb rubbed along Dean’s bottom lip gently and he stared at Dean thoughtfully for a long while until he said flatly, “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

Fists pushed Dean to his knees and swung around and grabbed up a nearby crowbar. Before Dean could cry out, Fists was swinging madly at the newly restored Dodge. Panels crumbled and glass flew as Fists’ rage unleashed itself on the metal beauty. Dean watched, kneeling on the ground, mouth open in horror, and ground his wrists together futilely as his hard work was reduced to scrap.

Finished at last, Fists strode over to Dean and crouched down before him and yanked his head up.

“There, Dean, you can take a real lesson from this. One I think might even penetrate your thick skull about what happens when you don’t obey. Nothing other than obedience matters in your life anymore.”

Tears ran unchecked down the sides of Dean’s face, and Fists hauled him up higher on his knees, drinking in his pain. He ground his jean-clad crotch against Dean’s face, his erection fully evident in the tight fitting material.

“Now you’ll show me what a good boy you can be,” Fists whispered as Dean heard the release of his zipper.

Fists pulled himself, half hard and leaking, out of his jeans. He rubbed the weeping head of his dick over Dean’s closed lips.

“Say ah, boy,” Fists ordered.

Dean reluctantly opened his mouth. Fists rammed his cock in, hard and punishing. There was no technique, no buildup, just the punch of his dick like the smash of a fist in and out of Dean’s mouth. Dean swayed under the assault, but Fists’ grasp on the back of his head held him in place. Dean tried to swallow the hardening mass down without choking as Fists pistoned into him, head thrown back, a cruel smile on his lips.

“Oh yea, that’s my boy, so fucking hot, those lips, like sin, all mine,” Fists crooned, hooded eyes pinned to Dean’s mouth as he watched his cock slide over the bruised, plush lips.

Before he could come, Fists pulled himself out of Dean’s throat and squeezed the base of his penis to give himself some time.

He pulled Dean up to his feet and as Dean gasped in pain at the rough movement, pushed him up against the ruins of the Dodge’s hood. Fists kicked Dean’s feet apart and shoved his chest down on the glass-sprinkled hood.

“Now remember this,” Fists grunted out as he slammed into Dean.

Dean jolted at the rough entry. Fists was larger than Mike, and Dean was unprepped. The dry burn of the too-large cock tearing its way through him had him biting his lip in pain. Dean whimpered as Fists set up a punishing pace, jackhammering into Dean’s ass without mercy, carefully avoiding Dean’s prostate. Fists was, as ever, all about punishment.

Dean scrambled to maintain his balance, as his body was jolted up and down on the hood of the Dodge, his bare feet cut and bleeding as he struggled to stay standing on the glass covered cement. His hands clenched in their cuffs as Fists, uncaring, continued to grind into him.

He mouthed around Dean’s neck and shoulders, cooing in his ear, “Missed this so much, missed the feel of your body under mine, baby boy. Missed fucking you into oblivion, son. You take it so good, such a good whore. Missed your pain.”

Fists’ pace finally lost its burning pace and became erratic as he came closer, finally erupting with a shout into Dean. His teeth locked down on Dean’s neck as he came.

Fists lay panting over Dean for a few minutes, but Dean was in too much pain to do more than breathe beneath him. Finally, he pulled out from Dean. Bound and bleeding, Dean slid exhausted from the hood of the car to the ground at Fists’ feet, come and blood leaking from his body.

Dean shivered as silent tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, and he gazed up at Fists in horror.

“Hush, Dean,” Fists ordered as he tucked himself in and reached toward him. Fists manhandled him up, and grasping the choke leash in his hand again, hauled Dean outside toward the waiting black, half-ton truck. Dean struggled to keep upright and not be dragged on the ground. He could see the familiar drape-covered box on the back of the truck flatbed - his cage.

Dean sobbed in horror as it came into view and tried to lurch back out of Fists’ grip. Fists just backhanded him solidly and continued to drag him forward.

“W-where’s …?”

“He’s not here right now, had a job to do over in Arizona; we’ll be joining him there. Knew it would only take one of us to recollect our property. He’s looking forward to seeing you again, though. Has a few thoughts to share with you on your little vacation away from family.”

Dean quaked; he could imagine what Hands had to take up with him.

Fists had just propped the half conscious Dean up against the back of the tail gate when Dean heard the scratch of a match being lit. Chris Colt’s face was briefly illuminated in the darkness.

“Now, I’d ask to be introduced,” Colt started companionably, “but I don’t believe that Dean really wants your company.”

“N-no- Chrriss… please, stay back, you don’t understand!” Dean lunged toward Chris desperate to keep the other man back but was brought up short with a strangled gasp by the choke chain wrapped around Fists’ wrist.

“Yea, Chris, stay back. This is none of your fucking business.” Fists’ voice promised violence.

“Well, that ain’t strictly true cause Dean here is a friend of mine, and I’m not letting some overgrown bully haul him off naked as a jay bird in a fucking cage. Not while I have breath in my body. Let. Him. The. Fuck. Go.” Chris stared Fists down unflinching.

“I won’t give you a second warning,” Fists promised as he turned, cat-quick, and shoved Dean to the ground, gun drawn from where it was stuffed in the back of his jeans and fired at Chris.

Chris must have had an angel watching over him or had spidey senses that would make a hunter blush because he was already in motion, leaping toward the cover of some stacked tires. Fists rolled and continued to take aim at the moving man. His second shot caught Chris high in the meat of his thigh. 

Dean saw him stagger and fall and cried out as Chris hit the ground. Fists stalked toward him, his gun trained on the fallen man. Chris scrabbled and drug himself across the ground. As Fists neared, he tried to reach the shotgun that had been flung out of his hands on impact. Fists easily reached it before him and kicked the gun away.

Defeated, Chris rolled over to look him in the face one last time, while Fists coldly took aim.

Dean looked away; he couldn’t watch as Fists blew his friends head off.

The report of the gun seemed oddly loud to Dean, and he jerked on his knees at the sound. Misery and guilt welled up in equal measure as he risked a look around at his master. He felt like he had killed Chris himself. If he’d never met Dean, Chris would still be alive.

Dean couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing when he finally turned. Fists stood there strangely awkward; he stiffened in pain and dropped his gun. Almost in slow motion, he fell to the ground. Behind him, Lawrence stood revealed, shaking, smoke still curling from the barrel of the shotgun he held. He looked ashen, bewildered at Dean as he clutched the still smoking gun.

“Nooooo, Noooo,” Dean cried out in horror and lunged toward Fists’ fallen body.

“No, no, no, Dad!!!” Dean huddled down against the body, bound hands still trapped behind his back.

He tried to kneel down and nudge the man’s face with his nose, tried to sense the faint inhale and exhale of breath as he squirmed, desperate to get his father’s head pulled over onto his knees.

Images of his Dad flashed through his head. His Dad as he shoved Sammy into his arms and sent him to safety out of the burning house. His Dad’s proud look at the roadhouse as teenage Dean bragged about bagging his first ghost. His dad teaching him how to handle a shotgun for the first time. Images of his dad in anger, in sorrow, in happiness, always the trained hunter, always the proud man, the good man, all skipped before Dean’s eyes. A kaleidoscope of horded memories that had kept Dean sane these last years, kept Dean from giving up.

Chris staggered to his feet and limped and stumbled bleeding over to Dean and was able to unlock the pressure link that connected Dean’s hands. He slumped to the ground, and Dean quickly checked his pulse as he collapsed unconscious beside him; he was still alive. Dean turned his attention toward the man who was both his father and of late his greatest tormentor.

“Stay with me, Dad, stay with me…”

John’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked up into Dean’s eyes, a puzzled look of confusion in them as he breathed out, “D-Dean, Dean?”

“I gottcha, Dad,” Dean breathed out shakily as he held his father.

“W-what happened, son? I remember…God it just doesn’t make sense. Is this a dream? Are you alright? I remember…”

“No, Dad, no it’s not a dream, but everything’s gonna be alright, I’m fine. God, Dad, it’s going to be okay.” Dean rocked his father in his arms.

Dean glanced around and shouted, “Lawrence call the paramedics, 911, now! Hurry!” Lawrence stared at Dean in stunned shock for a few minute and then dropped the shotgun he had still been holding like it was a live snake and moved jerkily toward the house.

“Hang on, Dad, help is coming…. Stay with me… I can’t lose you, not after all this time,” he crooned softly as he put pressure on the gouting wound.

“I, I remember the witch, we, your brother and I were going to find her. You were sick, god, you were puking your guts out, and you still wanted to come with us, sulking that we were gonna leave you behind.” His dad grinned weakly at him as he gasped for breath.

“We…found her. All those poor souls, she turned them into monsters. God, Dean, she’d summoned Yangon, and it was ugly, Dean, black magic, the darkest stuff.” John’s eyes glazed over slightly as he became caught up in the rush of memory. “An influence spell…to make them torture and control everyone they loved, and they wouldn’t even know... They were destroying their own families, Dean, the people they loved, their reputations, all because they’d pissed her off over some god damn real estate deal?” John’s breathing increased to shocky pants as he rushed to continue. “We caught up with her, but… but I think something went wrong. We’d put the bitch down, salted and burned her…but it must have been too late. The terrible things I remember, Dean. The things I did to you. Sammy and I…Oh God, Sammy too.”

“Take it easy, Dad, slow down. We’ve got time for that later, rest, rest, please, Dad,” Dean pleaded as he felt the dark warmth of his father’s blood spread beneath him.

“Lawrence…God damn it where is the ambulance?” Dean roared in frustration.

“No, son, you’ve got to know…I never would have done those things. Why did you stay, why didn’t you leave…. Oh damn it, Dean.”

“It’s okay, Dad, I figured it out, I figured out what happened after I saw the possession tattoo on your shoulder. I-I knew it wasn’t you doing th-those things to me. It was the spell. B-but I couldn’t leave you. I had to find a way to free you. I-I – it just didn’t work out like I planned. I thought if I could just research enough, find the right spell…I was so close, Dad...If I’d had just a bit more time.” Dean hid his head in his dad’s shoulder as his body shook, his hand pushing down fiercely on the now slowly spurting bullet wound. His hands had turned black, the darkness hiding the bright, arterial red.

His voice a hoarse echo of it’s usual deep self, his dad whispered, “You did good, son. I’m so proud of you. Don’t you ever doubt it, boy….Can – can you forgive me?” John’s eyes were opened wide as he stared intently at his son; his breathe rattled in his chest.

Tears in his eyes, Dean croaked out, “Nothin’ to forgive, Dad, nothing to forgive, it wasn’t you…it was never you. I love you, Dad.”

“God, Dean…you’ve got to take care of Sammy… save him, son. It’s all on you now. God forgive me….”

Dean felt his father’s body arc in a sudden spasm of pain. He held him closer, and he felt his dad’s breath huff out one last time as the tension in his body slowly released. John closed his eyes, a contented look on his face, secure in his son’s forgiveness.

 

Dean felt his father slip away, felt the horrible ripping in his soul as some part of him shredded and died right there with his dad. He howled, a broken inconsolable cry of anguish and hugged the cooling body tighter. Grief and guilt in equal measure poured through him as Dean rocked the still body. They had survived so much and then for it all to end like this, too late, Dean hadn’t found a cure in time, all his suffering, his research, and he hadn’t saved anyone.

When Dean was wrung raw, too exhausted for any more tears for the moment, he gently kissed his father’s forehead, and with trembling hands, carefully opened his dad’s shirt, exposing the now eerily white chest to the moonlight. He watched in horror filled fascination as the jagged and interlocking tattoo that had adorned his dad’s shoulder for the last three years slowly uncurled, broke apart and slid from his body. It disappeared into nothingness before Dean’s eyes. The witch’s spell was broken, the curse she had placed on Sam and his father three years ago over. At least for his dad. He had failed.

Dean felt gentle hands pry him loose from John’s body. Numb, Dean allowed himself to be coaxed up. Nothing penetrated the pained haze as Dean absently took in the sudden presence of ambulance lights, Lawrence’s shaky voice in the background as he talked to police, the hushed murmur of the paramedics. Dean barely registered being wrapped in a blanket and led to the waiting ambulance.

Other hands carefully removed the dog collar from Dean’s red and abraded neck. He almost resisted. It was the last thing his father had given him, but he gave it up in the sad realization that it was the curse’s influence, not his father. As awareness started to return to his dazed mind, Dean felt the warmth of a body close by. He turned to see Chris propped up beside him on the back end of the ambulance just as he finished exhaling on the cigarette now clamped firmly between his teeth.

As paramedics worked to patch each of them up Chris said, “You’ll have to explain to me one day what just the fuck just happened here. Who the hell was that guy anyway?”

Dean stared off into the night thinking about the answer.

 

: : :

 

**Two Weeks Later**

Dean loaded the last of his meager belongings into the Firebird under Anna’s watchful eyes. Lawrence had let him keep the car. Dean wasn’t sure if it was out of guilt or kindness, but he was grateful to have her. She wasn’t the Impala, but she was a great old gal. She just needed a little extra love, and Dean knew he could keep her running. The extra cash from the sale of his dad’s pick up would go a long way toward keeping him on the road and on the hunt. He shivered at the thought of being forced to ride in it again. Lawrence had mercifully taken care of everything, including the cage.

His wrapped ribs ached, and Dean looked wearily off toward the rising sun. He couldn’t stay here; it wasn’t safe anymore, not for the people he loved. He glanced around at the small group huddled around him. His new family, the family he had to leave in order to find the only family he had left.

“Anna,” Dean breathed as he gathered the redhead into his arms.

“I want you to look out for that brother of yours. Make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble while I’m gone…No saving strangers in the dark.” Dean huffed a weak laugh in Anna’s ear.

Anna hugged him, tears in her eyes. “Don’t go, Dean, stay here with us, with me…”

“I-I can’t. I-It would, you’re all in danger if I stay. I-I have to look after this first.” Dean glanced away from the hurt look in Anna’s eyes and ended up facing Chris.

Chris stuck out a hand toward Dean and when Dean reached to take it, Chris clasped his arm and reeled him in for a bear hug. “You come back, you hear? You don’t, and I’ll hunt you down like a dog. You’re not breakin’ my sister’s heart.”

Dean bit his lip and hugged the smaller man back, . “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“In the meantime, just so’s you don’t get rusty, here’s a little something we got you to take on the road.” Chris reached behind him and thrust a gaudily wrapped, guitar shaped package into his hands. Dean’s hands shook as he tore the Christmas wrap off the badly disguised gift. His voice caught in his throat as he looked up.

“It ain’t much, but it’s in tune, and even your sausage fingers can’t fuck up the tone. If you practice enough, you might still be worthy of our BBQ nights when you get back.” Chris’s voice was gruff, and Dean thought he saw the glint of tears in his eyes as he turned away.

Dean had to make the rest of the goodbyes fast before he changed his mind or broke down, whichever came first. His voice kept getting deeper and deeper with each hug and farewell wish, Ted and Doreen, Lawrence and Irene, José and Joe. How could he collect so many good souls so quickly to his heart? Dean shook his head at his good fortune, his weakness, his strength.

It had taken a while to explain it all to them, but by now they all knew, knew his past, his shameful secret, and why he had to leave. He just never expected it to be this hard.

He held Anna close and breathed in her scent one last time, memorizing it and the way she looked in the early morning light. Dean sighed and nuzzled her close, whispered, “I have to do this. He’s my brother… He’s all I’ve got left.”

“I know,” Anna said softly as she gave him one more fierce hug, . “You better come back soon, Dean Winchester, or you’ll find out how good a hunter I can be when I track you down.” Blue eyes twinkled at him before they became somber as they watched him climb into the Firebird and start her up.

 

: : :

 

The steady hum of wheels on asphalt soothed him.

For the first time in a long time he felt like the hunter he used to be.

“Sammy,” he breathed. _I’m comin’ for you, bro._

As his fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel, Dean turned up the radio and stepped on the gas.

 _I'm coming for you_ _._

END

 

_Thank you for reading. Would love to hear your thoughts._

 _ **Comments Immensely appreciated no matter when you read this story. ^^**_

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Fic writers work for comments and I'd like to at least make minimum wage : )

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